NEW  ENGLAND 

HISTORY 
IN  BALLADS 


EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 
AND  HIS  CHILDREN 


H 


NEW  ENGLAND  HISTORY 
IN  BALLADS 


NEW  ENGLAND  HISTORY 
IN    BALLADS 

BY 

EDWARD   E.    HALE 

AND   HIS    CHILDREN 
WITH  A  FEW  ADDITIONS  BY  OTHER  PEOPLE 

Illustrated  "by 

ELLEN  D.  HALE,  PHILIP  L.  HALE,  AND 
LILIAN  HALE 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1904 


Copyright,  1893, 190S, 
BY  EDWARD  E.    HALE. 


All  rights  reserved 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS   •    JOHN  WILSON 
AND    SON      •     CAMBRIDGE,  U.  8.  A. 


INTRODUCTION 

I  AM  fond  of  saying  that  we  have  never  had 
fifty  good  American  ballads.  We  have  never 
had  any,  if  the  ballad  is  to  fulfil  the  conditions 
which  Mr.  Lowell  and  other  writers  who  know 
have  assigned  for  good  ballad  poetry. 

The  truth  is  that  the  immortal  ballads  of  the 
past  could  never  have  existed  had  not  the  people 
who  composed  them  lived  in  the  conditions  of 
life  which  made  them  what  they  were. 

Mr.  Lowell  said  that  the  authors  of  the  English 
and  Scotch  ballads  had  these  advantages,  which 
are  hardly  possible  to-day : 

One.  They  were  not  encumbered  with  infor- 
mation. 

Two.  They  sang  well  because  they  never 
thought  about  it. 

Three.  In  repeating  their  poems,  they  had  the 
magnetism  of  the  sympathy  of  their  hearers,  — 
they  saw  their  faces  as  they  spoke. 

Four.  They  plunged  at  once  into  deep  water 
without  preface. 


239856 


vi  Introduction 

Five.  They  lived  when  and  where  there  were 
no  newspapers. 

Six.  They  said  things.  They  neither  ha- 
rangued nor  described.  And  to  Mr.  Lowell's 
remark  here,  I  will  add  that  they  never  furnished 
a  moral. 

Seven.  The  ballads  are  really  folk-songs,  and 
they  are  the  only  folk-songs. 

Eight.  Travelling  from  place  to  place  as 
ballad  singers  did,  they  had  that  education  for 
uplift  which  comes  from  life  in  the  open  air,  and 
from  that  only. 

I  have  abridged  somewhat  severely  Mr.  Low- 
ell's eight  conditions,  but  I  have  used  his  language 
so  far  as  I  could.  He  says  that  for  such  reasons 
the  ballad  singers  stood  face  to  face  with  life  in 
such  ways  as  we  cannot  enter.  He  also  says 
what  is  also  true,  that  the  old  English  ballads  are 
models  of  narrative  poetry. 

One  cannot  write  down  these  eight  conditions 
without  seeing  that  most  of  them  have  been  im- 
possible to  any  person  in  New  England  in  the 
last  three  centuries.  As  for  number  four,  all  of 
us  might  plunge  into  deep  water  without  preface, 
but  I,  who  have  knocked  about  the  world  for 
eighty  years,  have  never  met  five  public  men  who 
were  able  to  do  this.  A  speaker  at  a  dinner 
always  has  to  tell  you  why  he  is  there,  or  that  he 


Introduction 


Vll 


does  not  want  to  speak.  There  seems  something 
in  our  modern  time  which  makes  this  beginning 
or  propylaeum  necessary  whenever  we  build  a 
temple.  And  there  is  something  else  which  com- 
pels us  to  adorn  a  tale  or  to  state  a  moral,  though 
we  could  simply  state  things,  as  Mr.  Lowell  says. 
Here  are  two  of  his  conditions  which  we  might 
live  up  to,  but  which  we  do  not  choose  to  live  up 
to.  And  the  other  six  conditions  represent  social 
arrangements  which  have  been  impossible  since 
this  country  was  settled.  People  have  been  "en- 
cumbered with  information  "  ever  since  1620,  and 
there  has  been  no  occasion  for  ballad  singers  to 
travel  from  place  to  place.  The  newspaper  has 
been  in  advance  of  them  since  the  end  of  the 
century. 

The  Uncle  Remus  Stories  of  the  South  are 
often  models  of  good  narrative,  and  this  is  clearly 
just  because  those  to  whom  they  are  told  cannot 
read.  But  in  New  England  there  has  never  been 
any  group  of  people  who  could  not  read.  For 
such  reasons  I  might  say  of  the  New  England 
ballads  in  this  preface  what  the  English  midship- 
man said  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
Ro-to-to  Islands.  His  captain  had  assigned  to 
him  the  duty  of  preparing  a  report  for  the  Admi- 
ralty on  the  manners  and  customs  of  these  islands. 
The  poor  young  man  shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin 


viii  Introduction 

for  a  day,  and  at  the  end  of  the  day  his  manu- 
script was  examined  by  the  captain.  In  fifteen 
hours  he  had  written  these  words  only :  "  As  for 
manners  they  have  none,  and  their  customs  are 
very  filthy."  It  might  be  said  of  New  England 
that  she  has  no  ballads  and  that  those  she  has 
are  not  good. 

To  this  remark  there  are  two  exceptions,  per- 
haps three  or  four.  But  even  when  our  best 
"Makers"  have  tried  their  hands,  the  result  as 
compared  with  the  ballad  has  been  like  a  wax 
rose  when  compared  with  one  fresh  cut  from  the 
garden.  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Whittier,  and 
Lowell  himself,  have  tried  their  hands.  Long- 
fellow and  Whittier  have  best  succeeded  in 
throwing  overboard  the  hamper  of  literary  train- 
ing, in  plunging  into  deep  water,  and  swimming 
for  life  ;  yet  their  best  narrative  poems  are  not 
ballads,  if  one  uses  language  critically. 

There  are,  however,  some  forty  or  fifty  poems, 
more  or  less  narrative,  which  ought  to  be  read  in 
any  thoughtful  study  of  New  England  history. 
We  have  determined  in  my  house  that  it  will  be 
well  to  bring  together  some  of  the  fifty,  and  to 
indicate  where  the  rest  of  them  may  be  found. 
And  if  this  book  pretended  to  nothing  else  it 
would  "CLAIM,"  as  the  Patent  Office  says, 
that  it  gives  to  young  readers  some  hints  as 


Introduction  ix 

to  these  broken  lights  of  the  history  of  three 
centuries.  Of  the  Four  Makers  in  any  such  se- 
lection there  should  appear  the  poems,  to  which 
they  have  given  these  names. 

LONGFELLOW.  The  Burial  of  the  Minnisink,  The  Skele- 
ton in  Armor,  The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  The  Arsenal 
at  Springfield,  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  The  Phantom  Ship, 
In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge,  The  Newport  Cemetery, 
Paul  Revered  Ride,  Lady  Wentworth,  The  Bells  of  Lynn. 

WHITTIER.  Cassandra  Southwick,  Funeral  Tree  of  the 
Sokokis,  Pentucket,  St.  John,  The  Exiles,  The  Familist's 
Hymn,  The  Fountain,  The  Merrimack,  The  New  Wife 
and  the  Old,  The  Norsemen,  Massachusetts  to  Virginia, 
New  Hampshire,  — 1845,  A  New  England  Legend,  The 
Pumpkin,  The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time,  In  the  Old 
South. 

HOLMES.  Old  Ironsides,  The  Dorchester  Giant,  Lex- 
ington, Harvard  Centennial,  Berkshire  Jubilee,  Agnes,  The 
Ploughman,  The  New  England  Society,  1855,  Webster's 
Birthday,  Parson  Turell's  Election,  Robinson  of  Leyden, 
Dorothy  Q.,  The  Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea  Party,  After 
the  Fire,  The  Commemoration  Service,  God  Save  the  Flag, 
Long  Wharf,  Grandmother's  Bunker  Hill,  The  Old  South, 
King's  Chapel,  The  Broomstick  Train. 

LOWELL.  To  a  Pine  Tree,  Indian  Summer,  The  Crisis, 
Some  of  the  Biglow  Papers,  Myles  Standish,  Pictures  from 
Appledore,  The  Voyage  to  Vinland,  The  Fatherland. 

There  are,  as  I  have  said,  many  unwritten  bal- 
lads. Some  of  the  more  interesting  titles  would 
be  — 


x  Introduction 

Winslow  and  Massasoit.     1621. 
The  Lobsters  at  Squantum.     1621. 
Winthrop's  Landing  in  Beverly  Harbor. 

"  They  had  gathered  strawberries."     1630. 
The  Explosion  on  the  Rose.     1640. 
William  Blaxton  leaves  Boston. 

The  Sale  of  King  Philip's  Wife  and  Child  into  Slavery. 
The  Imprisonment  of  Sir  Edmund  Andros. 
Franklin  and  his  Mother. 
The  Birth  of  the  Dauphin. 

I  count  Mr.  Longfellow's  ballad  of  the  French 
Fleet  as  the  best  New  England  ballad  so  far. 
That  will  be  found  here. 


THE  book  in  the  reader's  hands,  however,  was 
not  born  in  the  intention  to  furnish  such  a  cata- 
logue. It  happened  to  me  more  than  twenty 
years  ago  to  go  to  Europe  on  a  holiday,  and  to 
leave  behind  a  family  of  young  people  who  had 
pencils  and  pens  in  their  hands.  I  told  them 
that  there  were  no  ballads  proper  in  New  Eng- 
land history,  and  I  proposed  to  them  that  while 
we  were  parted  from  each  other,  we  should  begin 
a  series  to  see  if  we  could  not  fill  in,  in  a  way, 
this  blank  of  the  literary  history  of  our  own  region. 
They  did  not  do  a  great  deal,  and  I  am  afraid  I 
did  nothing  in  the  matter  in  those  four  months. 


Introduction  xi 

But  we  all  of  us  knew  that  we  had  these  ballads 
on  our  list  of  omitted  duties  ;  and  from  time  to 
time  we  have  pulled  them  out  from  the  pigeon- 
holes and  hammered  away  at  them.  This  meta- 
phor is  very  bad,  but  the  reader  must  let  it 
stand. 

I  have  brought  together  now  the  ballads  we 
have  written  and  with  them  we  print  ten  illus- 
trations. Some  of  the  illustrations  must  take  the 
place  of  those  which  we  have  not  written.  And 
so  the  reader  has  in  his  hands  the  collection 
which  we  have  made,  say  in  five  and  twenty  years, 
for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer. 

Beside  these,  I  have  printed  here  some  other 
verses  which  have  been  printed  before.  These 
are  not  selected  for  their  special  interest,  but  be- 
cause I  think  they  are  hard  to  find.  If  I  chose 
the  poems  of  value  and  interest  merely,  I  should 
have  to  reprint  many  of  the  four  "  Makers "  I 
have  named.  But  their  ballads  are  in  every  one's 
hands. 

As  matter  of  chronology,  I  suppose  that  Mr. 
Longfellow's  ballad  of  the  Skeleton  in  Armor, 
the  same  whom  they  discovered  in  Fall  River  in 
1833,  would  be  the  first  poem  in  this  book.  If 
this  Viking  were  here  at  all,  he  was  here  with 
Thorvald  or  Thorfinn  as  early  as  the  first  mil- 
lenium  of  the  Christian  era.  But  the  Skeleton 


xii  Introduction 

in  Armor  had  for  his  armor  the  same  copper 
tubes  which  Gosnold  afterwards  saw  on  the  In- 
dians in  1602.  No  such  armor  was  ever  worn 
by  a  Viking.  With  reluctance,  therefore,  I  give 
this  poor  Viking  up  and  do  not  reprint  the 
ballad.  No.  If  you  please,  we  will  begin  with 
Columbus. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  the  word  ballad  has 
been  used  in  the  broadest  possible  range  of  any 
language  to  which  the  word  belongs.  And  to 
the  word  ballad  the  reader  must  be  careful  to 
add  the  other  words  and  other  verses. 


EDWARD  E.  HALE. 


ROXBURY,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
September  7,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

£ije  ^Forerunners 

Columbus  ..............  Page  3 

Sonnet       ......     «     .     .     ....."      5 

The  Three  Anniversaries      ........     "      6 

Adrian  Block's  Song    ..........     "      8 


Generation 

The  Finding  of  the  First  Mayflower  .....  "    13 

Boston  in  1621  ...     .     .     .......  "15 

Anonymous    .............  "    16 

Anne  Hutchinsoii's  Exile     ........  "20 

The  First  Settler     ...........  "24- 

jfrom  tfte  Colony  to  tlje  §>tate 

Uncle  Tracy's  Thanksgiving      .......  "29 

Anne  Dudley      ............  "31 

The  Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Bloody  Brook  .     .  "    33 

William  Kidd      ............  "37 

"Ye  Lamentable  Ballad  and  Ye  True  Historic  of 

Captaine  Robert  Kidd"      .......  "40 

Robinson  Crusoe      ...........  "47 

The  Queen's  Road  ...........  "51 


xiv  Contents 

The  Franklin  Ballads     .........  Page  55 

The  Downfall  of  Piracy      ........  "  57 

Franklin's  Wit  ............  "  6l 

At  the  Inn  .............  "  63 

Black  Beard     ............  «  67 

"  Song  of  Lovewell's  Fight  "   .......  «  69 

From  Potomac  to  Merrimac     .......  "  76 

Louisbourg  .............  "  80 

A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet      „    >    *     *    >     .  "  82 

Elegy  on  the  Young  Man  Bitten  by  a  Rattlesnake  "  86 


The  Other  Half    ...........  "      91 

The  British  Grenadier    .........  "      92 

Paul  Revere's  Ride    ..........  «     95 

New  England's  Chevy  Chase  .......  "    100 

A  Song    ..............  "108 

Ballad      ..............  "Ill 

The  Marching  Song  of  Stark's  Men      .     .     .     .  "112 

Concord  Bridge     ...........  "114 

The  Yankey's  Return  from  Camp     .....  "    116 

The  Yankee  Privateer    .........  "121 

The  Old  South  Picture  Gallery   ......  "126 

Another  Century  ...........  "    134 

Chesapeake  and  Shannon   ........  "135 

Old  Ironsides    ............  "137 

The  Funeral  of  Old  John  Rudd  ......  "140 

The  Breach  by  Point  Judith  Point  .....  "147 

Cotton  "    154 


Contents  xv 

f 

Cttiii  OTfor 

The  Civil  War  ...........      Page  159 

Old  Faneuil  Hall  ...........     «    l6l 

Take  the  Loan      ...........     "    163 


The  Great  Harvest  Year    ........  «    167 

Manila  Bay  .............  "175 

New  England  to  a  Truant  Lover      .....  "177 

Phillips  Brooks      ...........  "179 

Francis  Parkman  ...........  "    180 

The  Stars  "    181 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Great  Christ  Bearer  quailed  not       .     .     Frontispiece 

66 '  The  spring  is  come,'  she  said  " Page    14 

"  The  baby  clings ;  the  mother  sings  "...       "       20 
"'Your  horse  won't  eat  them,  sir'"    ....       "       60 

"  And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came "     .     *    »     .     .       "       81 

"  So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere"  .     .  "       99 

In  a  barn  at  Milk  Row "     106 

Stabbed  and  killed  in  Havana "     153 

His  soul 's  marching  on •     •  "     1^9 

And  then  I  spent  the  parting  night     ....  "162 


THE  FORERUNNERS 


NEW  ENGLAND  HISTORY 


COLUMBUS 

GIVE  me  white  paper ! 
This  which  you  use  is  black  and  rough  with 

smears 

Of  sweat  and  grime  and  fraud  and  blood  and  tears, 
Crossed  with  the  story  of  men's  sins  and  fears, 
Of  battle  and  of  famine  all  these  years, 

When  all  God's  children  had  forgot  their 

birth, 

And  drudged    and  fought  and    died    like 
beasts  of  earth. 

"  Give  me  white  paper ! " 

One  storm-trained  seaman  listened  to  the  word ; 
What  no  man  saw  he  saw ;  he  heard  what  no 

man  heard. 
In  answer  he  compelled  the  sea 


4  Ballads  of 

To  eager  man  to  tell 
The  secret  she  had  kept  so  well ! 
Left  blood  and  guilt  and  tyranny  behind,  — 
Sailing  still  West  the  hidden  shore  to  find ; 

For  all  mankind  that  unstained  scroll  un- 
furled, 

Where  God  might  write  anew  the  story  of 
the  World. 


New  England  History 


SONNET 

TO    THE  SHIP  WHICH   BROUGHT  A    COPY  OF   MlCHAEL  ANGELO's   STATUE 

OF  CHRIST  FROM  ITALY  TO  AMERICA 

BARK  after  bark  has  sunk  in  gales  like  these, 
Facing  the  jealous  West,  as  thou  dost  now. 
Still  thou  must  breast  each  wave,  nor  shun  the 

seas, 

Which  beetle  downward  on  thy  westward  prow. 
The  great  "Christ-bearer"  quailed  not:   he,  as 

thou, 

Left  Italy  to  seek  our  Western  shore ; 
And,  as  another  dove  another  olive  bore, 
Seeing  across  the  waste  another  promise-bow. 

Beat  westward  still !  beat  downward  every  wave  1 

The  Christ  who  gave  our  New  World  to  the  Old, 

E'en  then  his  secret  to  his  Michael  told, 

And  to  his  eye  the  sacred  vision  gave. 

Beat  the  waves  down  !  let  them  his  form  behold 

Who  are  his  "  other  sheep,"  not  of  his  early  fold. 

ANTIQUARIAN  HALL,  WORCESTER.     1853. 


Ballads  of 


THE  THREE  ANNIVERSARIES 

SHORT  is  the  day,  and  night  is  long ; 

But  he  who  waits  for  day 
In  darkness  sits  not  quite  so  long, 

And  earlier  hails  the  twilight  gray, 
A  little  earlier  hails  the  ray, 
That  drives  the  mists  of  night  away. 

So  was  this  land  cold,  dead,  and  drear, 

When  to  the  rock-bound  shore 
That  Pilgrim  band,  Christ-led,  drew  near, 
The  promise  of  a  new-born  year,  — 
Twilight,  which  shows  that  even  here 
The  sun  of  gladness  shall  appear, 
The  land  be  dark  no  more. 

So  was  the  world  dark,  drear,  and  wild, 
When  on  that  blessed  morn 

A  baby  on  his  mother  smiled. 

The  dawning  comes,  the  royal  child, 
The  Sun  of  life,  is  born. 


New  England  History 

The  lengthening  days  shall  longer  grow, 
Till  summer  rules  the  land ; 

From  Pilgrim  rills  full  rivers  flow,  — 
Roll  stronger  and  more  grand. 

So,  Father,  grant  that  year  by  year 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  more  clear 
To  our  awaiting  hearts  appear, 
And  from  his  doubtful  East  arise 
The  noonday  Monarch  of  the  skies,  — 
Till  darkness  from  the  nations  flies ; 
Till  all  know  him  as  they  are  known, 
Till  all  the  earth  be  all  his  own. 


8  Ballads  of 


ROSES   ISLAND 

I  BELIEVE  that  the  State  of  Rhode  Island  derives  its  name 
from  its  beautiful  Rhododendron. 

This  is  certain  that  Adrian  Block,  who  gave  the  name  to  the 
island  on  which  Newport  stands,  must  have  seen  the  rhodo- 
dendron maximum  in  bloom  if  he  landed  on  the  south  shore 
of  the  State,  and  made  any  march  inland. 

The  glory  of  the  Rhode  Island  flora  is  in  its  magnificent 
display  of  rhododendron  maximum.  This  noble  plant  appears 
to  no  more  advantage  than  in  the  swamps  of  Rhode  Island. 
There  is  a  covert  crowded  with  it,  within  a  mile  of  my  own 
Rhode  Island  home,  to  which  Aladdin  might  have  been  proud 
to  take  the  daughter  of  the  Emperor  of  China. 

The  supposition,  therefore,  that  Adrian  Block  named 
Rhode  Island  from  its  display  in  July  of  these  beautiful 
flowers  is  not  without  foundation  in  natural  history.  It  is 
quite  as  likely  a  supposition  as  any  other  which  has  been 
offered  for  the  origin  of  the  modern  name  of  the  island  and 
the  State. 

ADRIAN  BLOCK'S   SONG 

HARD  aport !  Now  close  to  shore  sail ! 

Starboard  now,  and  drop  your  foresail ! 
See,  boys,  what  yon  bay  discloses, 
What  yon  open  bay  discloses  ! 
Where  the  breeze  so  gently  blows  is 
Heaven's  own  land  of  ruddy  roses. 


New  England  History 

Past  the  Cormorant  we  sail, 
Past  the  rippling  Beaver  Tail, 
Green  with  summer,  red  with  flowers, 
Green  with  summer,  fresh  with  showers, 
Sweet  with  song  and  red  with  flowers, 
Is  this  new-found  land  of  ours ! 

Roses  close  above  the  sand, 

Roses  on  the  trees  on  land, 
I  shall  take  this  land  for  my  land, 
Rosy  beach  and  rosy  highland, 
And  I  name  it  Roses  Island. 


THE  FIRST   GENERATION 

1620-1688 


THE  FINDING  OF  THE  FIRST 
MAYFLOWER 

PLYMOUTH,  1621 

THE  gray  mists  on  the  hillside  fall, 
The  gray  gulls  o'er  the  harbor  call. 
With  silent  tread  they  wander  down 
Through  last  year's  leaves  and  grasses  brown. 
Said  he,  "  The  months  go  by,  this  year, 

And  all  is  still  and  dead. 
Is  it,  then,  always  winter  here  ? " 

"  The  spring  will  come,"  she  said. 

An  east  wind  cuts  the  mist  in  twain,  — 
There  is  the  straight  sea  line  again. 
She  draws  her  mantle  close,  and  he, 
Turning  his  back  upon  the  sea, 
Speaks :  "  Lord,  thy  servant  here  behold  ! 

My  sins  upon  my  head ; 
But  why,  Lord,  slay  us  by  thy  cold  ?  9 
"  The  spring  will  come,"  she  said. 


14  Ballads  of 

She  drops  her  head,  and  at  her  feet 
There  is  a  flower  white  and  sweet. 
They  brush  the  leaves  aside,  and  there 
Its  pink  and  white  are  everywhere. 
A  ray  of  sun  —  and  all  the  slope 

Laughs  with  its  white  and  red. 
"  It  is  the  Mayflower  of  our  hope ; 

The  spring  is  come,"  she  said. 


; 


New  England  History 


BOSTON  IN   1621 

AFTER  the  hardships  of  the  first  winter  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
sent  a  shallop  up  the  bay  to  explore  the  coast.  In  this  boat, 
apparently,  was  William  Bradford,  the  first  governor.  The 
lines  below  show  that  he  saw  the  peninsula  of  Shawmut, 
where  Boston  stands,  before  the  arrival  of  its  first  inhabitant, 
William  Blaxton.  I  say  first  "  inhabitant,"  for  there  is  no 
evidence  that  any  man,  white  or  red,  lived  on  that  peninsula 
before  him. 


BOSTON   IN   1621 

OH  Boston,  though  thou  now  art  grown 
To  be  a  great  and  wealthy  Town, 
Yet  I  have  seen  thee  a  wild  Place, 
Shrubs  and  Bushes  covering  thy  Face : 
And  House  then  in  thee,  none  there  were 
Nor  such  as  Gold  and  Silk  did  wear : 
No  Drunkenness  were  then  in  thee, 
Nor  such  Excess  as  now  we  see. 
We  then  drank  freely  of  thy  Spring, 
Without  paying  of  Anything. 
We  lodged  freely  where  we  would, 
All  Things  were  free  and  Nothing  sold. 


1 6  Ballads  of 

And  they  that  did  thee  first  begin 
Had  Hearts  as  free  and  as  willing 
Their  poor  Friends  for  to  entertain 
And  never  looked  at  sordid  Gain. 

WILLIAM  BRADFORD. 


The  author  of  the  following  lines  is  not  known.     They 
were  first  printed  in  1773,  having  been  preserved  traditionally. 

1630-1640 

NEW  ENGLAND'S  annoyances,  you  that  would 

know  them, 
Pray  ponder  these  verses  which  briefly  do  show 

them. 

The  Place  where  we  live  is  a  wilderness  Wood, 
Where  Grass  is  much  wanting  that 's  fruitful  and 

good, 

Our  Mountains  and  Hills  and  our  Valleys  below 
Being   commonly  covered   with   Ice  and  with 

Snow : 
And  when  the  Northwest  Wind  with  violence 

blows, 

Then  every  Man  pulls  his  Cap  over  his  Nose ; 
But  if  any 's  so  hardy  and  will  it  withstand, 
He  forfeits  a  Finger,  a  Foot,  or  a  Hand. 


New  England  History  17 

But  when  the  Spring  opens  we  then  take  the  Hoe 
And  make  the  Ground  ready  to  plant  and  to  sow : 
Our  Corn  being  planted  and  Seed  being  sown, 
The  Worms  destroy  much  before  it  is  grown. 
And  when  it  is  growing  some  spoil  there  is  made 
By  Birds  and  by  Squirrels  that  pluck  up  the  Blade ; 
And  when  it  is  come  to  full  Corn  in  the  Ear, 
It  is  often  destroyed  by  Raccoon  and  by  Deer. 

And  now  all  our  Garments  begin  to  grow  thin, 
And  Wool  is  much  wanted  to  card  and  to  spin. 
If  we  can  get  a  Garment  to  cover  without, 
Our  other  In-Garments  are  Clout  upon  Clout. 
Our  Clothes  we  brought  with  us  are  apt  to  be  torn, 
They  need  to  be  clouted  soon  after  they  're  worn  ; 
But    clouting    our    Garments    they   hinder   us 

nothing : 
Clouts   double   are   warmer  than    single   whole 

Clothing. 

If  fresh  Meat  be  wanting  to  fill  up  our  Dish, 
We  have  Carrots  and  Turnips  as  much  as  we 

wish, 

And  if  there 's  a  Mind  for  a  delicate  Dish 
We  repair  to  the  Clam-Banks  and  there  we  catch 

Fish. 


1 8  Ballads  of 

For  Pottage  and  Puddings  and  Custards  and  Pies 
Our  Pumpkins  and  Parsnips  are  common  Supplies, 
We  have  Pumpkins  at  Morning  and  Pumpkins 

at  Noon, 
If  it  was  not  for  Pumpkins  we  should  be  undone. 

If  Barley  be  wanted  to  make  into  Malt, 
We  must  be  contented  and  think  it  no  Fault, 
For  we  can  make  liquor  to  sweeten  our  Lips 
Of  Pumpkins   and  Parsnips  and  Walnut-Tree 
Chips. 

Now  while  Some  are  going  let  Others  be  coming, 
For  while  Liquor's  boiling  it  must  have  a 

scumming. 

But  I  will  not  blame  them,  for  Birds  of  a  Feather 
By  seeking  their  Fellows  are  flocking  together. 
But  you  whom  the  Lord  intends  hither  to  bring 
Forsake  not  the  Honey  for  fear  of  the  Sting ; 
But  bring  both  a  quiet  and  contented  Mind, 
And  all  needful  blessings  you  surely  will  find. 

[Some  verse  or  verses  seem  to  have  been 
lost  just  before  the  end.  —  E.  E.  H.] 


New  England  History  19 


ANNE   HUTCHINSON 

NOTHING  in  New  England  history  is  more  interesting  or 
more  tantalizing  than  the  life  of  Anne  Hutchinson. 

The  little  colony  at  the  head  of  Boston  Bay  had  struggled 
along  for  four  years.  In  September,  1630,  some  twenty  or 
thirty  families  had  crossed  from  their  tents  or  shanties  in 
Charlestown,  to  Shawmut,  or  Trimountain,  opposite,  because 
there  was  the  perpetual  spring  of  water  there.  It  is  remem- 
bered to-day  in  "  SPRING  LANE/'  and  its  water  supplies  the 
steam  engine  of  the  Post  Office.  Bradford  refers  to  it  in  his 
verses  printed  already. 

In  that  first  winter  the  "houses"  were  little  better  than 
holes  in  the  ground  with  roofs  above  them,  —  on  the  lower 
part  of  the  slope  from  our  Tremont  Street  as  you  would  go 
down  to  the  sea. 

With  that  Spartan  beginning  the  town  had  increased 
until,  in  1634,  there  were  roads,  a  meeting-house,  the  begin- 
ning of  a  schoolhouse,  —  and  the  prospect  of  being  the 
capital.  Still,  a  new  settlement,  we  all  know  what  that  is. 
Into  such  a  new  town  John  Cotton  came  in  1633,  his  admirer 
and  friend,  Anne  Hutchinson,  in  1634,  and  Sir  Henry  Vane 
in  1635. 

Who  shall  say  how  these  newcomers  wounded  and  hurt 
the  old  settlers.  "  A  certain  condescension  observable  in  all 
foreigners,"  this  is  Lowell's  charming  phrase  when  he  de- 
scribes it.  What  is  certain  is  that  Anne  Hutchinson,  after  a 
career  like  that  of  Madame  Recamier  in  her  salon  in  Paris, 
in  three  years'  time  had  offended  the  rulers  of  the  State. 
For  the  first  time,  and  the  last,  the  State  authorities  inter- 


20  Ballads  of 

fered  with  a  local  church,  and  the  First  Church  of  Boston 
sent  into  exile  some  of  its  very  best  members.  The  magis- 
trates tried  Anne  Hutchinson  on  a  civil  charge.  They  could 
not  prove  that  her  theology  was  wrong,  and  they  sent  her  into 
exile  on  a  charge  of  disturbing  the  peace  by  maligning  the 
ministers.  So  the  poor  woman  with  her  husband  and  her 
children  had  to  go,  and  the  ballad  below  describes  one  night's 
encampment  in  Rhode  Island.  There  is  no  authority  for  the 
supposition  that  this  was  a  little  west  of  Point  Judith. 


1638 

ANNE   HUTCHINSON'S   EXILE 
A  BALLAD 

"  HOME,  home  —  where 's  my  baby's  home  ? 
Here  we  seek,  there  we  seek  my  baby's  home 

to  find. 
Come,  come,  come,  my  baby,  come ! 

We  found  her  home,  we  lost  her  home,  and 

home  is  far  behind. 
Come,  my  baby,  come  ! 
Find  my  baby's  home ! " 

The   baby  clings;  the  mother  sings;  the  pony 

stumbles  on ; 

The  father  leads  the  beast  along  the  tangled, 
muddy  way ; 


New  England  History  21 

The  boys  and  girls  trail  on  behind ;  the  sun  will 

soon  be  gone, 
And  starlight  bright  will  take  again  the  place 

of  sunny  day. 

"  Home,  home  —  where 's  my  baby's  home  ? 
Here  we  seek,  there  we  seek,  my  baby's  home 

to  find. 
Come,  come,  come,  my  baby,  come  1 

We  found  her  home,  we  lost  her  home,  and 

home  is  far  behind. 
Come,  my  baby,  come ! 
Find  my  baby's  home ! " 


The  sun  goes  down  behind  the  lake ;  the  night 

fogs  gather  chill, 
The    children's    clothes    are    torn ;    and   the 

children's  feet  are  sore. 
"  Keep  on,  my  boys,  keep  on,  my  girls,  till  all 

have  passed  the  hill ; 
Then  ho,  my  girls,  and  ho,  my  boys,  for  fire 

and  sleep  once  more ! " 
And  all  the  time  she  sings  to  the  baby  on  her 

breast, 
"Home,  my  darling,  sleep,  my  darling,  find  a 

place  for  rest ; 


22  Ballads  of 

Who  gives  the  fox  his  burrow  will  give  my  bird 

a  nest. 

Come,  my  baby,  come ! 
Find  my  baby's  home  1 " 

He  lifts  the  mother  from  the  beast ;  the  hemlock 

boughs  they  spread, 

And  make  the  baby's  cradle  sweet  with  fern- 
leaves  and  with  bays. 
The  baby  and  her  mother  are  resting  on  their 

bed; 
He  strikes  the  flint,  he  blows  the  spark,  and 

sets  the  twigs  ablaze. 
"  Sleep,  my  child  ;  sleep,  my  child  ! 
Baby,  find  her  rest, 
Here  beneath  the  gracious  skies,  upon  her 

father's  breast ; 
Who  gives  the  fox  his  burrow  will  give  my 

bird  her  nest. 

Come,  come,  with  her  mother,  come ! 
Home,  home,  find  my  baby's  home  1 " 

The  guardian  stars  above  the  trees  their  loving 

vigil  keep ; 

The  cricket  sings  her  lullaby,  the  whippoorwill 
his  cheer. 


New  England  History  23 

The  father  knows  his  Father's  arms  are  round 

them  as  they  sleep ; 
The  mother  knows  that  in  His  arms  her  darling 

need  not  fear. 

"  Home,  home,  my  baby's  home  is  here ; 
With  God  we  seek,  with  God  we  find  the  place 

for  baby's  rest. 
Hist,  my  child,  list,  my  child ;  angels  guard  us 

here. 
The  God  of  heaven  is  here  to  make  and  keep 

my  birdie's  nest. 
Home,  home,  here 's  my  baby's  home  I " 


24  Ballads  of 


THE  FIRST  SETTLER 

WHAT  was  his  name  ?     I  do  not  know  his  name. 
I  only  know  he  heard  God's  voice  and  came ; 
Brought  all  he  loved  across  the  sea, 
To  live  and  work  for  God  —  and  me ; 
Felled  the  ungracious  oak,  — 
With  horrid  toil 
Dragged  from  the  soil 

The  thrice-gnarled  roots  and  stubborn  rock ; 
With  plenty  piled  the  haggard  mountain-side, 
And  when  his  work  was  done,  without  memorial 

died. 

No  blaring  trumpet  sounded  out  his  fame ; 
He  lived  and  died.     I  do  not  know  his  name. 

No  form  of  bronze  and  no  memorial  stones 
Show  me  the  place  where  lie  his  mouldering 
bones. 

Only  a  cheerful  city  stands, 

Builded  by  his  hardened  hands ; 


New  England  History  25 

Only  ten  thousand  homes, 
Where  every  day 
The  cheerful  play 

Of  love  and  hope  and  courage  comes  ; 
These  are  his  monuments,  and  these  alone, — 
There  is  no  form  of  bronze  and  no  memorial 
stone ! 

And  I? 

Is  there  some  desert  or  some  boundless  sea 
Where  thou,  great  God  of  angels,  wilt  send  me  ? 
Some  oak  for  me  to  rend,  some  sod 
For  me  to  break, 
Some  handful  of  thy  corn  to  take, 
And  scatter  far  afield, 
Till  it  in  turn  shall  yield 
Its  hundredfold 
Of  grains  of  gold, 

To  feed  the  happy  children  of  my  God  ?  — 
Show  me  the  desert,  Father,  or  the  sea. 
Is  it  thine  enterprise  ?     Great  God,  send  me  ! 
And  though  the  body  lie  where  ocean  rolls, 
Father,  count  me  among  all  faithful  souls ! 

NOVEMBER,  1885 


FROM  THE  COLONY  TO  THE 
STATE 


UNCLE  TRACY'S  THANKSGIVING 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  this  queer  song  runs  back 
in  time  to  the  end  of  the  first  century  of  the  colony. 

It  is  purely  traditional.  I  heard  it  as  early  as  1825,  and 
I  do  not  believe  it  has  ever  been  printed  until  now. 

I  have  no  doubt  as  to  its  antiquity.  It  belongs  before 
1689  and  after  l66l. 

UNCLE  TRACY'S   THANKSGIVING.     1675? 

'T  WAS  up  to  Uncle  Tracy's 
The  Fifth  of  November, 
Last  Thanksgiving  night 
As  I  very  well  remember 
And  there  we  had  a  Frolic, 

A  Frolic  indeed, 

Where  we  drank  good  full  Glasses 
Of  old  Anise-seed. 

And  there  was  Mr.  Holmes 
And  there  was  Peter  Drew, 

And  there  was  Seth  Gilbert 
And  Seth  Thomas  too 


30  Ballads  of 

And  there  were  too  many 
Too  many  for  to  name, 

And  by  and  by  1 11  tell  you  how 
They  carried  on  the  Game. 

They  carried  on  the  Game 

Till 't  was  late  in  the  night, 
And  one  pretty  Girl 

Almost  lost  her  Eyesight. 
No  wonder,  no  wonder 

No  wonder  indeed, 
For  she  drank  good  full  Glasses 
Of  old  Anise-seed. 


New  England  History  31 


ANNE  DUDLEY 

I  WAS  most  desirous  to  print  here,  before  the  date  of 
Philip's  War,  some  verses  by  the  New  England  poet,  Anne 
Dudley,  who  became  by  marriage  Anne  Bradstreet.  It  is  she 
whom  Cotton  Mather  calls  the  "  tenth  Muse." 

She  had  some  ear  for  rhythm.  She  had  read  Du  Bartas 
and  delighted  in  him.  The  same  may  be  said  of  John  Milton. 
Anne  Dudley  may  have  seen  Milton.  She  was  twelve  years 
younger  than  he  was. 

But  alas  !  I  have  read  Anne  Dudley  Bradstreet's  poems, 
though  not  for  the  first  time,  in  hope  that  I  might  find  one 
line  which  should  show  that  she  had  ever  seen  a  hepatica,  or 
a  wood  anemone,  or  bloodroot,  or  a  ladies'  slipper,  or  a  fringed 
gentian.  No !  She  had  only  seen  violets  and  primroses  and 
roses  —  the  conventional  flowers  of  English  poetry.  And,  to 
all  appearances  she  had  never  seen  a  moccasin,  or  a  dug-out,  or 
a  toboggan,  or  a  squaw,  or  a  pappoose.  No !  Her  acquaint- 
ances were  of  the  First  Monarchy  and  the  Second  Monarchy. 

I  think  that  the  only  allusions  in  her  poems  which  can  be 
tortured  into  an  observation  of  Nature  or  Nature's  work  in 
New  England  are  these.  The  North  Andover  people  may 
imagine  that  she  has  strayed  to  the  bank  of  the  Merrimac 
from  the  Phillips  Brooks  house. 

"  Under  the  cooling  shadow  of  a  stately  elm 

Close  sate  I  by  a  goodly  River's  side, 
Where  gliding  streams  the  rocks  did  overwhelm 

A  lonely  place,  with  pleasures  dignified. 
I  once  that  lov'd  the  shady  woods  so  well, 
Now  thought  the  rivers  did  the  trees  excell, 
And  if  the  sun  would  ever  shine,  there  would  I  dwell." 


32  Ballads  of 


Here  are  the  conventional  references  which  she  makes  to 
flowers.  <e Azure  violets"  may  pass.  But  "primroses"  in 
the  Merrimac  Valley  ?  Ah  me  ! 

"  The  primrose  pale  and  azure  violet 
Among  the  verdurous  grass  hath  Nature  set.** 

For  birds,  she  says : 

"  The  sweet-tongued  Philomel  perched  o'er  my  head." 

But  alas  !  Philomel  never  came  within  three  thousand 
miles  of  her. 

For  insects  on  the  lawn  : 

"  I  heard  the  merry  grasshopper  then  sing, 

The  black  clad  cricket  bear  his  second  part, 
They  kept  one  tune  and  played  on  the  same  string, 
Seeming  to  glory  in  their  little  art" 

These  are  the  least  conventional  and  most  genuine  lines 
in  the  volume  of  her  poems.  But  grasshoppers  are  merry, 
and  crickets  are  black  in  England. 

I  go  into  this  exhaustive  review,  because  I  suppose  that  I 
am  now,  since  the  death  of  her  editor,  Mr.  John  Harvard 
Ellis,  the  only  person  who  has  read  her  poems. 

"It  is  proper,"  as  one  of  my  Zuni  friends  said,  that  I 
should  say  that  since  the  death  of  my  accomplished  friend, 
Mr.  Ellis,  no  man  lives,  except  myself,  who  has  fulfilled  this 
pious  duty. 

Let  us  remember  that  Christopher  North  speaks  kindly  of 
her. 


New  England  History  33 


BLOODY  BROOK 

THE  slaughter  of  Lathrop  with  the  "  Flower  of  Essex  "  on 
the  eighteenth  of  September,  1675,  was  one  of  the  most  tragic 
incidents  of  King  Philip's  War. 

I  wrote  this  ballad  to  read  at  the  celebration  at  "  Bloody 
Brook,"  at  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  in  the  year  1888. 

It  is  a  good  aid  to  memory  that  Philip's  War  broke  out 
exactly  a  century  before  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill.  The 
colony,  only  forty-five  years  old,  was  very  near  destruction. 
But  the  pluck  of  the  fathers  was  such  that  they  would  not 
send  "home  "  for  an  ounce  of  powder  or  of  lead. 

It  is  rather  curious  that  no  allusion  has  been  found  in  the 
excited  literature  of  1775  to  the  recurrence  of  the  centennial 
anniversaries  of  the  crisis  of  1675. 

THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BLOODY 
BROOK 

COME  listen  to  the  Story  of  brave  Lathrop  and 

his  Men,  — 

How  they  fought,  how  they  died, 
When  they  marched  against  the  Red  Skins  in 

the  Autumn  Days,  and  then 
How  they  fell,  in  their  pride, 
By  Pocumtuck  Side. 


34  Ballads  of 

"  Who  will  go  to  Deerfield  Meadows  and  bring 

the  ripened  Grain  ?  " 
Said  old  Mosely  to  his  men  in  Array. 
"  Take  the  Wagons  and  the  Horses,  and  bring  it 

back  again ; 

But  be  sure  that  no  Man  stray 
All  the  Day,  on  the  Way." 


Then  the  Flower  of  Essex  started,  with  Lathrop 

at  their  head, 

Wise  and  brave,  bold  and  true. 
He  had  fought  the  Pequots  long  ago,  and  now  to 

Mosely  said, 

"  Be  there  Many,  be  there  Few, 
I  will  bring  the  Grain  to  you." 


They  gathered  all  the   Harvest,   and  marched 

back  on  their  Way 

Through  the  Woods  which  blazed  like  Fire. 
No  soldier  left  the  Line  of  march  to  wander  or 

to  stray, 

Till  the  Wagons  were  stalled  in  the  Mire, 
And  the  beasts  began  to  tire. 


New  England  History  35 

The  Wagons  have  all  forded  the  Brook  as  it 

flows, 

And  then  the  Rear-Guard  stays 
To  pick  the  Purple  Grapes  that  are  hanging  from 

the  Boughs, 

When,  crack !  —  to  their  Amaze, 
A  hundred  Fire-locks  blaze  ! 


Brave  Lathrop,  he  lay  dying ;  but  as  he  fell  he 

cried, 

"  Each  man  to  his  Tree,"  said  he, 
"  Let  no  one  yield  an  Inch  ; "  and  so  the  Soldier 

died; 

And  not  a  Man  of  all  can  see 
Where  the  Foe  can  be. 


And  Philip  and  his  Devils  pour  in  their  Shot 

so  fast, 

From  behind  and  before, 
That  man  after  Man  is  shot  down  and  breathes 

his  last 

Every  Man  lies  dead  in  his  Gore 
To  fight  no  more,  —  no  more  ! 


36  Ballads  of 

Oh,  weep,  ye  Maids  of  Essex,  for  the  Lads  who 

have  died,  — 

The  Flower  of  Essex  they  ! 
The   Bloody  Brook   still  ripples   by   the   black 

Mountain-side, 
But  never  shall  they  come   again  to   see  the 

ocean-tide, 
And  never  shall  the  Bridegroom  return  to  his 

Bride, 
From  that  dark  and  cruel  Day,  —  cruel  Day ! 


New  England  History  37 


WILLIAM   KIDD 

OUR  friends  in  New  York  who  care  at  all  for  the  history  of 
the  seventeenth  century  have  sometimes  intimated  that  the 
products  of  piratical  adventure  were  to  be  seen  in  the  houses 
of  the  well-to-do  people  of  Boston  as  the  end  of  that  century 
passed  by.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Boston  historians  are  a 
little  apt  to  intimate  that  in  the  lower  streets  of  New  York 
adventures  were  planned  for  seamen  who  did  not  much  care 
what  flag  they  sailed  under.  It  is  certain  that  those  years  of 
the  end  of  that  century  and  the  beginning  of  the  next  were 
great  years  for  piracy  or  for  "  freebooters." 

Mr.  Macaulay  in  a  chapter  of  his  history  which  was  printed 
after  his  death  says,  "Many  of  the  pirates  of  the  Indian 
Ocean,  it  was  said,  came  from  our  North  American  Colonies, 
and  carried  back  to  those  Colonies  the  spoils  gained  by 
crime."  And  he  specifies  New  York  and  the  Puritans  of 
New  England  as  those  who  profited  by  the  ill-gotten  spices 
and  stuffs  which  the  pirates  had  to  sell. 

With  regard  to  such  suspicions,  as  far  as  New  England  is 
concerned,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  there  is  not  an  old  candle- 
stick or  an  old  pistol  or  musket  or  cutlass  in  New  England 
regarding  which  there  is  any  tradition  that  it  came  from  a 
buccaneer  or  other  "freebooter."  On  the  other  hand,  what 
is  certain  is  that  the  "  Colonial  Records  "  are  full  of  the  efforts 
to  suppress  piracy,  and  that  for  some  of  these  years  at  least 
the  Province  of  Massachusetts  had  cruisers  under  its  own 
commission  and  flag,  quite  regardless  of  home  authorities,  to 
keep  the  seas  of  their  neighborhood  free.  Lord  Bellomont, 
who  became  governor  of  Massachusetts  and  New  York  in 


38  Ballads  of 

1695,  was  specially  charged  by  William  III.  to  suppress  "  free- 
booting."  Bellomont  commissioned  a  New  York  merchant  of 
good  standing,  named  William  Kidd,  to  take  command  of  a 
privateer  called  the  Adventure  Galley,  which  was  equipped 
in  London  for  the  special  purpose  of  seizing  pirates.  Kidd 
crossed  the  Atlantic  in  this  vessel,  and  in  New  York  found 
volunteers  in  abundance  for  her  crew.  In  1697  he  sailed 
from  the  Hudson  with  one  hundred  and  fifty  men,  and  in 
July  reached  Madagascar. 

What  happened  in  the  Indian  Ocean  it  is  hard  to  tell. 
Macaulay  says  coolly,  "  The  risk  of  being  called  to  severe 
reckoning  might  no^  unnaturally  seem  small  to  one  who  had 
seen  many  old  buccaneers  living  in  comfort  and  credit  at  New 
York  and  Boston."  So  far  as  Boston  is  concerned  I  do  not 
believe  that  Kidd  had  seen  any  such  thing.  It  is,  however, 
perhaps  true,  that  he  threw  off  the  character  of  the  "privateer  " 
and  became  a  pirate.  But  some  doubt  certainly  is  thrown  on 
this  charge  against  him,  by  the  fact  that  he  returned  to  New 
York,  apparently  with  no  fear,  having  burned  his  ship,  as  is 
supposed,  and  dismissed  his  men.  He  wrote  to  Bellomont, 
who  was  in  Boston,  that  he  had  been  unjustly  accused,  and 
offered  to  visit  him  in  Boston.  Bellomont  replied  by  giving 
him  an  absolute  safe-conduct,  promising  him  that  he  could 
come  to  Boston  and  return  safely  to  his  home.  Kidd  came  to 
Boston,  he  took  up  his  quarters  in  the  best  inn  in  the  place, 
and  he  called  with  perfect  freedom  at  the  council  chamber 
again  and  again.  Unfortunately  for  him  and  for  Bellomont's 
character,  orders  then  arrived  from  London  that  Bellomont 
should  arrest  him  and  await  further  orders  from  the  Admiralty. 
Bellomont  was  afraid.  He  violated  his  own  safe-conduct,  and 
imprisoned  Kidd  in  the  Boston  jail.  Kidd's  wife  came  on  to 
Boston  to  visit  him  there.  Kidd  was  sent  to  London  and  was 
hanged. 


New  England  History  39 

The  personal  correspondence  between  Kidd  and  Bellomont 
is  in  the  Massachusetts  Archives.  So  are  Sarah  Kidd's 
letters,  signed  with  her  mark  because  she  could  not  write. 

The  misery  of  it  all  is  that  the  prosecution  was  purely  a 
political  prosecution.  For  the  charge  was  a  charge  not  really 
against  Kidd,  but  against  Somers,  who  was  one  of  the  sub- 
scribers to  the  Adventure  Galley  enterprise.  The  govern- 
ment prosecuting  him  abandoned  the  charge  of  piracy  and  he 
was  hanged  for  the  murder  of  one  of  his  sailors.  Whether 
Kidd  were  unjustly  sentenced  or  not,  he  was  sentenced  and 
he  was  hanged.  The  southern  part  of  Rhode  Island,  where 
is  my  summer  home,  is  honeycombed  with  holes  which  have 
been  made  by  people  who  have  been  seeking  for  Kidd's 
treasure,  in  the  two  hundred  years  which  have  passed  since 
he  was  hanged  at  Execution  Dock.  Some  English  ballad 
writer  of  the  time  wrote  the  ballad  which  is  still  sung  in  the 
forecastle.  I  have  myself  heard  old  seamen  sing  it  when 
everything  was  dark  around  us,  and  a  northeast  fog  was  form- 
ing in  drops  upon  our  clothes. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  Macaulay  gave  to  the  ballad 
rather  more  historical  authority  than  it  deserved. 

The  reader  will  observe  that  the  ballad  calls  the  hero 
Robert  Kidd,  while  there  is  no  doubt  that  his  name  was 
William  and  that  the  other  details  of  the  ballad,  excepting 
perhaps  the  death  of  William  Moore,  are  untrue. 

There  is  a  general  agreement  that  the  ship  in  which  Kidd 
and  his  men  returned  was  not  the  Adventure  Galley  but  the 
Quedah,  an  Asiatic  vessel  which  he  had  taken  as  a  prize.  A 
generation  after  the  Whidah,  supposed  to  be  a  buccaneer,  was 
shipwrecked  on  Cape  Cod.  Was  she  the  same  ship  ? 


40  Ballads  of 


«YE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  AND  YE  TRUE  HIS- 
TORIE  OF  CAPTAINE  ROBERT  KIDD,  WHO  WAS 
HANGED  IN  CHAINS  AT  EXECUTION  DOCK, 
FOR  PIRACY  AND  MURDER  ON  YE  HIGH  SEAS." 
1701 

You  captains  bold  and  brave,  hear  our  cries,  hear 

our  cries, 

You  captains  bold  and  brave,  hear  our  cries, 
You  captains   brave   and   bold,  tho'   you  seem 

uncontroll'd, 
Don't  for  the  sake  of  gold  lose  your  souls,  lose 

your  souls, 
Don't  for  the  sake  of  gold  lose  your  souls. 


My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  when  I  sail'd,  when 

I  sail'd, 

My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  when  I  sail'd, 
My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  God's  laws  I  did 

forbid, 
And  so  wickedly  I  did,  when  I  sail'd. 


New  England  History  41 

My  parents  taught  me  well,  when  I  sail'd,  when 

I  sail'd, 

My  parents  taught  me  well,  when  I  sail'd, 
My  parents  taught  me  well  to  shun  the  gates  of 

hell, 
But  against  them  I  rebell'd  when  I  sail'd. 

I  cursed  my  father  dear,  when  I  sail'd,  when  I 
sail'd, 

I  cursed  my  father  dear,  when  I  sail'd, 
I  cursed  my  father  dear  and  her  that  did  me  bear 

And  so  wickedly  did  swear,  when  I  sail'd. 

I  made  a  solemn  vow  when  I  sail'd,  when   I 
sail'd, 

I  made  a  solemn  vow  when  I  sail'd, 
I  made  a  solemn  vow,  to  God  I  would  not  bow, 

Nor  myself  one  prayer  allow,  as  I  sail'd. 

I  was  sick  and  nigh  to  death,  as  I  sail'd,  as  I 

sail'd, 

I  was  sick  and  nigh  to  death  as  I  sail'd, 
And  I  was  sick  and  nigh  to  death,  and  vowed  at 

every  breath, 
To  walk  in  wisdom's  ways  as  I  sail'd. 


42  Ballads  of 

I  thought  I  was  undone  as  I  sail'd,  as  I  sail'd, 
I  thought  I  was  undone  as  I  sail'd, 

I  thought  I  was  undone  and  my  wicked  glass 

had  run, 
But  my  health  did  soon  return  as  I  sail'd. 

My  repentance  lasted  not,  as  I  sail'd,  as  I  sail'd, 
My  repentance  lasted  not,  as  I  sail'd, 

My  repentance  lasted  not,  my  vows  I  soon  for- 
got, 
Damnation 's  my  just  lot,  as  I  sail'd. 

I  steer'd  from  sound  to  sound,  as  I  sail'd,  as  I 

sail'd, 

I  steer'd  from  sound  to  sound,  as  I  sail'd, 
I  steer'd  from  sound  to  sound,  and  many  ships  I 

found, 
And  most  of  them  I  burn'd  as  I  sail'd. 

I  spy'd  three  ships  from  France,  as  I  sail'd,  as  I 

sail'd, 

I  spy'd  three  ships  from  France,  as  I  sail'd, 
I  spy'd  three  ships  from  France,  to  them  I  did 

advance, 
And  took  them  all  by  chance,  as  I  sail'd. 


New  England  History  43 

I  spy'd  three  ships  of  Spain,  as  I  saiTd,  as  I 

sail'd, 

I  spy'd  three  ships  of  Spain,  as  I  sail'd, 
I  spy'd  three  ships  of  Spain,  I  fired  on  them 

amain, 
Till  most  of  them  were  slain,  as  I  sail'd. 

I  'd  a  bible  in  my  hand  when  I  sail'd,  when  I 

sail'd, 

I  'd  a  bible  in  my  hand  when  I  sail'd, 
I'd  a  bible  in  my  hand   by   my  father's   great 

command, 
And  I  sunk  it  in  the  sand  when  I  sail'd. 

I  murdered  William  Moore,   as   I   sail'd,  as  I 

sail'd, 

I  murdered  William  Moore,  as  I  sail'd, 
I  murdered  William  Moore,  and  left  him  in  his 

gore, 
Not  many  leagues  from  shore  as  I  sail'd. 

And  being  cruel  still,  as  I  sail'd,  as  I  sail'd, 

And  being  cruel  still,  as  I  sail'd, 
And  being  cruel  still,  my  gunner  I  did  kill, 

And  his  precious  blood  did  spill,  as  I  sail'd. 


44  Ballads  of 

My  mate  was  sick  and  died  as  I  sail'd,  as  I  sail'd, 
My  mate  was  sick  and  died  as  I  sail'd, 

My  mate  was  sick  and  died,  which  me  much 

terrified, 
When  he  called  me  to  his  bedside  as  I  sail'd. 


And  unto  me  he  did  say,  see  me  die,  see  me  die, 
And  unto  me  did  he  say  see  me  die, 

And  unto  me  did  say,  take  warning  now  by  me, 
There  comes  a  reckoning  day,  you  must  die. 


You  cannot  then  withstand,  when  you  die,  when 

you  die, 

You  cannot  then  withstand  when  you  die, 
You  cannot  then  withstand  the  judgments   of 

God's  hand, 
But  bound  then  in  iron  bands,  you  must  die. 


I  'd  ninety  bars  of  gold,  as  I  sail'd,  as  I  sail'd, 
I  'd  ninety  bars  of  gold,  as  I  sail'd, 

I  'd  ninety  bars  of  gold,  and  dollars  manifold, 
With  riches  uncontroll'd,  as  I  sail'd. 


New  England  History  45 

Then   fourteen   ships   I   saw,   as   I   sail'd,  as   I 

sail'd, 

Then  fourteen  ships  I  saw  as  I  sail'd, 
Then  fourteen  ships  I  saw  and  brave  men  they 

are, 
Ah  !  they  were  too  much  for  me  as  I  sail'd. 

Thus  being  o'ertaken  at  last,  I  must  die,  I  must 
die, 

Thus  being  o'ertaken  at  last,  I  must  die, 
Thus  being  o'ertaken  at  last  and  into  prison  cast, 

And  sentence  being  pass'd,  I  must  die. 

Farewell  the  raging  sea,  I  must  die,  I  must  die, 
Farewell  the  raging  main,  I  must  die, 

Farewell  the  raging  main,  to  Turkey,   France, 

and  Spain, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  you  again,  I  must  die. 

To  Newgate  now  I'm  cast,  and  must  die,  and 

must  die, 

To  Newgate  now  I  'm  cast,  and  must  die, 
To   Newgate  I  am  cast,  with  a  sad  and  heavy 

heart, 
To  receive  my  just  desert,  I  must  die. 


46  Ballads  of 

To  Execution  Dock  I  must  go,  I  must  go, 

To  Execution  Dock  I  must  go, 
To  Execution  Dock  will  many  thousands  flock, 

But  I  must  bear  the  shock,  I  must  die. 

Come  all  you  young  and  old,  see  me  die,  see  me 

die? 

Come  all  you  young  and  old,  see  me  die, 
Come  all  you  young  and  old,  you  're  welcome  to 

my  gold, 
For  by  it  I  Ve  lost  my  soul,  and  must  die. 

Take  warning  now  by  me,  for  I  must  die,  for  I 

must  die, 
Take  warning  now  by  me,  for  I  must  die, 

Take  warning  now  by  me,  and  shun  bad  company, 
Lest  you  come  to  hell  with  me,  for  I  must  die, 
Lest  you  come  to  hell  with  me,  for  I  must  die. 


New  England  History  47 


ROBINSON   CRUSOE 

THE  greatest  of  modern  romances  has  an  American  hero. 
For  Robinson  Crusoe,  who  had  left  England  when  he  was 
scarcely  twenty-one  years  old,  landed  in  America  when  he 
was  about  twenty-three.  He  was  shipwrecked  on  his  island 
about  the  time  when  Richard  Cromwell  retired  from  the 
government  of  England.  Crusoe  returned  to  establish  him- 
self when  he  was  an  old  man,  so  to  speak,  arriving  in  England 
on  the  week  when  William  III.  entered  London. 

I  suppose  that  by  these  definite  dates  Defoe  meant  to 
show  that  a  true-born  Englishman  could  not  live  in  England 
while  the  Stuarts  sat  on  the  throne. 

In  his  second  voyage,  in  the  year  1695,  Crusoe  came  as 
near  us  as  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  and  there  is  an  inti- 
mation that  if  thus  and  so  had  happened  he  might  have 
looked  in  on  us  in  the  "  northern  parts  of  Virginia."  One 
may  add  that  Daniel  Defoe  had  a  son  in  North  Carolina. 
And  the  precision  of  his  narrative  of  white  slavery  in  his 
novel  of e< Captain  Jack"  makes  one  think  that  Daniel  Defoe 
himself  had  visited  America.  But  the  North  Carolina  people 
do  not  find  him  or  his  son. 

Many  imitations  of  Robinson's  life  have  been  written, 
but  the  "New  England  Crusoe"  is  yet  in  the  inkstand. 
The  song  which  I  reprint  is  still  to  be  found  on  the  wharves, 
in  a  broadside,  with  a  picture  of  Robinson  canying  a  kid  on 
his  shoulders.  It  was  written  in  the  latter  part  of  the 


48  Ballads  of 

eighteenth  century,  for  Mr.  Cussans,  an  English  actor,  and 
was  for  a  century  a  favorite  song  between  acts  on  the  Eng- 
lish and  American  stage. 

WHEN  I  was  a  lad,  I  had  cause  to  be  sad, 

My  grandfather  I  did  lose,  Oh  ! 
I  '11   bet   you   a   cann,   you   have   heard  of  the 

man, 

His  name  was  Robinson  Crusoe. 
Chorus.  —  Oh  !  poor  Robinson  Crusoe, 

Tink  a  tang  a  tang, 
Oh  1  poor  Robinson  Crusoe. 

You  have  read  in  a  book  of  a  voyage  he  took, 
How  the  howling  whirlwinds  blew  so ; 

The  ship  with  a  shock,  drove  plump  on  a  rock, 
Near  drowning  poor  Robinson  Crusoe. 

Poor  soul,  none  but  he,  remain'd  on  the  sea, 
Ah  !  fate,  fate  !  how  couldest  thou  do  so  ! 

Till  ashore  he  was  thrown,  on  an  island  unknown, 
Oh  !  poor  Robinson  Crusoe. 

He  wanted  to  eat,  and  he  sought  for  some  meat, 
But  the  cattle  away  from  him  flew  so, 

That  but  for  his  gun,  he  'd  been  surely  undone, 
Oh !  poor  Robinson  Crusoe. 


New  England  History  49 

But  he  sav'd  from  on  board,  an  old  gun  and 

sword, 

And  another  odd  matter  or  two  so  ; 
That    by    dint    of    his    thrift,    he    manag'd    to 

shift, 
Well  done  poor  Robinson  Crusoe. 

And  he   happen'd  to  save,  from  the   merciless 

wave, 

A  poor  parrot,  I  assure  you,  it  was  so  ; 
That  when  he  come  home,  from  a  wearisome 

roam, 
She  'd  cry  out,  "  Poor  Robinson  Crusoe." 

He  got  all  in  the  wood,  that  ever  he  could, 
And  he  stuck  it  together  with  glue,  so 

That  he  made  him  a  hut,  in  which  he  might 

put 
The  body  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

He  wore   an   old    cap,   and   a   coat  with  long 

nap, 

And  a  beard  as  long  as  a  Jew,  so 
That,   by  all  that   is   evil,   he  look'd  like  the 

devil, 
More  than  like  Robinson  Crusoe. 

4 


50  Ballads  of 

And  then  his  man  Friday,  kept  the  hut  neat  and 

tidy, 

To  be  sure  't  was  his  business  to  do  so ; 
They  were  friendly  together  like  neighbor  and 

brother, 
Liv'd  Friday  and  Robinson  Crusoe. 

At  length,  an  English  sail,  came  near,  within  hail, 

Oh,  then  he  took  to  his  canoe,  so 
That  on  reaching  the  ship,  they  gave  him  a  trip, 

To  the  country  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 


New  England  History  51 


THE  QUEEN'S  ROAD 

To  any  one  who  lives  in  the  "  South  County  "  it  is  needless 
to  tell  what  we  mean  there  when  we  speak  of  the  "  Queen's 
Road."  But  alas  !  There  are  some  people  who  have  not  even 
heard  "  whether  there  be  any  South  County."  To  them  let  it 
be  said  that  Rhode  Island,  though  a  small  State  apparently, 
is  really  three  States  :  — 

1.  Providence  Plantations. 

2.  Newport    and    Rhode   Island   as   above.     (See   Adrian 
Block.) 

3.  The  King's  Province.     Capital,  King's  Town.     This  is 
the  South  County. 

Now  through  the  King's  Province  passes  the  old  seaboard 
road  from  Newport  to  New  York,  —  on  which  George  Fox 
travelled  in  1672,  on  which  Madam  Knight  rode  on  a  pillion, 
and  where  Franklin  carried  the  mail,  on  certain  impossible 
hypotheses.  And  in  the  reign  of  good  Queen  Anne,  the  niece 
of  King  Charles,  for  whom  the  King's  Province  was  named, 
this  road  was  made  sure.  Before  that  time  it  had  been  only 
an  Indian  trail.  It  is,  therefore,  by  all  people  who  are  more 
than  eighty  years  old,  called  the  "  Queen's  Road."  And  even 
young  people  call  the  wild  carrot,  when  in  July  it  blossoms 
with  all  its  summer  beauty,  by  the  pretty  name  of  te  Queen 
Anne's  Lace."  But  we  must  not  give  to  the  ballad  any  his- 
torical importance. 


52  Ballads  of 

OLD  Queen  Anne,  she  lay  a-dying, 

Oh,  sad  to  see, 
On  her  silver  bedstead  lying, 
While  the  golden  sands  are  flying, 

Ah,  weary  me ! 

On  her  right  the  priest  is  kneeling, 

With  his  Latin  prayer  ; 
To  the  Queen  of  Heaven  appealing, 
That  this  Queen,  whose  life  is  stealing 
Far  from  earth  or  earthly  feeling, 
May  quickly  name  her  heir. 

At  her  left  the  bishop  praying,  — 

And  the  words  he  said : 
"  Recollect,  Great  God,  the  wonder 
When  her  fleets  with  bolts  of  thunder 
Drove  the  wicked  Papists  under, 
And  their  armies  fled." 

Sudden  steps  surprise  the  palace  !  — 
Vain  the  sentry  at  the  wall  is  ;  — 
The  Messenger  upsets  the  chalice !  — 

Roger  Williams'  son 
Scornfully  upsets  the  chalice, 
And  defies  the  churchman's  malice.  — 


New  England  History  53 

He  has  words  to  cheer  the  dying 
On  her  silver  bedstead  lying. 
Hear  him  in  her  chamber  crying 
That  her  work  is  done. 


O'er  the  dying  queen  he  bended, 

Screaming  in  her  ear, 
"  Great  Queen  Anne,  your  road  is  mended, 
From  the  floods  the  track 's  defended, 
All  your  money  is  expended, 
But  the  task  has  been  well  ended, 

And  the  road  is  there. 


"  From  Block-house  on  Tower  Hill," 

(Screaming  in  her  ear,) 
"  By  Willow  Dell  to  Perryville, 
By  Loisha's  house  to  Cross's  Mill, 
Queen  Anne's  road  is  built  with  skill, 

TeU  me  if  you  hear ! " 

See  the  Queen's  dim  eyeballs  glisten, 

Rising  in  her  bed  ; 
How  her  frail  form  bends  to  listen 

To  the  words  he  said. 


54  Ballads  of 

"  Williams,  say  those  words  again ! 
Those  are  words  that  conquer  pain  ! 
All  the  work  explain  —  explain  — 
Say  again  —  say  —  say  —  again  —  " 
And  the  Queen  is  dead. 

Rose  the  Bishop  from  his  kneeling, 
Ceased  the  priest  from  his  appealing 

To  the  Holy  Rood, 
Vain  was  Satan's  thunderous  levin, 
To  her  failure  pardon  's  given 
For  Queen  Anne  has  gone  to  heaven 

On  the  old  Queen's  Road. 


New  England  History  55 


THE  FRANKLIN   BALLADS 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  plays  an  important  part  in  our  ballad 
history  as  in  all  our  history. 

He  is  not  generally  remembered  as  a  poet.  Yet  in  his 
matchless  autobiography,  with  all  his  own  humor,  he  tells  us 
how  narrow  was  his  escape  from  a  poet's  life.  When  he  was 
apprentice  to  his  brother  in  the  office  of  the  New  England 
Courant,  it  so  fell  out  that  Mr.  Worthylake,  the  keeper  of  the 
lighthouse,  and  his  daughters  came  in  a  boat  from  the  light- 
house to  the  town  to  attend  the  divine  service  on  Sunday. 
It  was  on  the  third  of  November,  1718,  as  they  attempted 
to  return  from  the  service,  a  squall  of  wind  struck  the  boat 
and  they  were  all  drowned. 

An  event  so  sad  arrested  the  quick  attention  of  the  Courant 
people,  and  the  apprentice,  Benjamin,  was  set  to  "  composing  " 
a  ballad  on  the  lamentable  tragedy.  This  he  did  literally. 
With  the  compositor's  stick  in  his  hand,  he  set  up  the  verses 
at  the  case,  and  the  type  was  lifted  on  the  stone  and  locked 
up  without  pen  or  pencil  or  paper. 

The  press  was  worked  by  the  hand  which  had  composed 
the  ballad.  And  the  apprentice  boy  who  had  printed  it  was 
sent  into  the  streets  to  cry  it  and  to  sell  it. 

It  had  great  success,  very  great  success.  And  so  was  it, 
that  when  not  long  after  the  Courant  received  news  that  the 
famous  Rover  Black  Beard  had  been  taken  and  beheaded, 
the  boy  composed  another  ballad  with  equal  success. 

It  was  then  that  he  had  the  critical  conversation  with 
his  father  which  changed  the  current  of  his  life.  And  who 


56  Ballads  of 

shall  say  how  much  more  it  changed  — ' '  what  might  have 
been"? 

For  fifty  years,  more  or  less,  I  had  the  hope  of  disinterring 
these  Franklin  ballads.  I  came  so  near  it  one  day,  that 
when  I  asked  the  ballad  monger  on  Tremont  Street,  by  the 
Albany  road,  if  he  had  the  ballad  of  <f  Black  Beard,"  he  said, 
"  No  !  Mr.  Hale,  but  I  will  have  it  this  afternoon  ! " 

But  alas  !  —  he  did  not  have  it  that  afternoon  —  and  in  all 
his  life  after  he  did  not  find  it. 

But  I  lived  on,  —  in  the  hope  that  it  might  be  found. 
For  my  dear  friend,  Dr.  Hayward,  recollected  this  verse  of 
a  ballad  of  Black  Beard. 

**  So  each  man  to  his  gun  ! 
For  the  work  must  be  done, 

With  musket,  sword,  and  pistol,  — 
And  when  we  can  no  more  strike  a  blow 
We  '11  fire  the  powder,  and  up  we  '11  go. 
T  is  better  to  swim  in  the  sea  below 
Than  to  hang  in  the  air  and  feed  the  crow, 

Said  jolly  Ned  Teach  of  Bristol." 

Dr.  Hayward  remembered  this  as  early  as  1 840 ;  probably 
it  belongs  much  earlier.  It  is  so  good  that  I  carried  it  in 
my  head  for  twenty  or  thirty  years,  quite  sure  that  it  was 
Franklin's. 

But  no  !  —  alas  and  alas  !  Mr.  Ashton  in  his  "  Real 
Sailor  Songs  "  disinterred  the  original  Franklin,  —  I  suppose 
in  the  British  Museum.  It  is  very  bad,  —  as  bad  as  it  could 
be.  But  it  bears  every  mark  of  being  the  original  by  Ben- 
jamin Franklin. 

Black  Beard  was  a  famous  pirate  who  was  met  and  killed 
by  a  king's  sloop  under  Maynard.  You  may  see  the  island 
on  which  his  head  was  left  to  terrify  on-lookers,  as  you  stand 
in  front  of  Dr.  Frissell's  house  at  Hampton  College.  It  is 
called  Black  Beard's  Island.  His  name  was  Ned  Teach. 


New  England  History  57 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  PIRACY 

WILL  you  hear  of  a  bloody  Battle, 

Lately  fought  upon  the  Seas, 
It  will  make  your  Ears  to  rattle, 

And  your  Admiration  cease  ; 
Have  you  heard  of  Teach  the  Rover, 

And  his  Knavery  on  the  Main ; 
How  of  Gold  he  was  a  Lover, 

How  he  lov'd  all  ill  got  Gain. 

When  the  Act  of  Grace  appeared, 

Captain  Teach  with  all  his  Men, 
Unto  Carolina  steered, 

Where  they  kindly  us'd  him  then ; 
There  he  marry 'd  to  a  Lady, 

And  gave  her  five  hundred  Pound, 
But  to  her  he  prov'd  unsteady, 

For  he  soon  march'd  off  the  Ground. 

And  returned,  as  I  tell  you, 

To  his  Robbery  as  before, 
Burning,  sinking  Ships  of  value, 

Filling  them  with  Purple  Gore ; 


58  Ballads  of 

When  he  was  at  Carolina, 
There  the  Governor  did  send, 

To  the  Governor  of  Virginia, 
That  he  might  assistance  lend. 

Then  the  Man  of  War's  Commander, 

Two  small  Sloops  he  fitted  out, 
Fifty  Men  he  put  on  board,  Sir, 

Who  resolv'd  to  stand  it  out : 
The  Lieutenant  he  commanded 

Both  the  Sloops,  and  you  shall  hear, 
How  before  he  landed, 

He  suppress'd  them  without  fear. 

Valiant  Maynard  as  he  sailed, 

Soon  the  Pirate  did  espy, 
With  his  Trumpet  he  then  hailed, 

And  to  him  they  did  reply : 
Captain  Teach  is  our  Commander, 

Maynard  said,  he  is  the  Man, 
Whom  I  am  resolv'd  to  hang,  Sir, 

Let  him  do  the  best  he  can. 

Teach  replyed  unto  Maynard, 
You  no  Quarter  here  shall  see, 

But  be  hang'd  on  the  Mainyard, 
You  and  all  your  Company ; 


New  England  History  59 

Maynard  said,  I  none  desire, 

Of  such  Knaves  as  thee  and  thine, 

None  I  '11  give,  Teach  then  replyed, 
My  Boys  give  me  a  Glass  of  Wine. 

He  took  the  Glass,  and  drank  Damnation 

Unto  Maynard  and  his  Crew  ; 
To  himself  and  Generation, 

Then  the  Glass  away  he  threw ; 
Brave  Maynard  was  resolv'd  to  have  him, 

Tho'  he  'd  Cannons  nine  or  ten  ; 
Teach  a  broadside  quickly  gave  him, 

Killing  sixteen  valiant  Men. 

Maynard  boarded  him,  and  to  it 

They  fell  with  Sword  and  Pistol  too  ; 
They  had  Courage,  and  did  show  it, 

Killing  of  the  Pirate's  Crew. 
Teach  and  Maynard  on  the  Quarter, 

Fought  it  out  most  manfully, 
Maynarffs  Sword  did  cut  him  shorter, 

Losing  his  head,  he  there  did  die. 

Every  Sailor  fought  while  he,  Sir, 
Power  had  to  wield  the  Sword, 

Not  a  Coward  could  you  see,  Sir, 
Fear  was  driven  from  abroad : 


60  Ballads  of 

Wounded  Men  on  both  Sides  fell,  Sir, 
'T  was  a  doleful  Sight  to  see, 

Nothing  could  their  Courage  quell,  Sir, 
O,  they  fought  courageously. 

When  the  bloody  Fight  was  over, 

We  're  informed  by  a  Letter  writ, 
Teach's  Head  was  made  a  Cover, 

To  the  Jack  Staff  of  the  Ship : 
Thus  they  sailed  to  Virginia, 

And  when  they  the  Story  told, 
How  they  kill'd  the  Pirates  many, 

They  'd  Applause  from  young  and  old. 


New  England  History  61 


FRANKLIN'S  WIT 

AND  here  will  be  a  fit  place  for  the  other  Franklin  poems. 
They  belong  after  his  residence  was  established  in  Philadel- 
phia, on  one  of  his  long  journeys,  by  the  north  side  of  Long 
Island  Sound  to  Newport  and  Boston.  The  first  is  at  least  as 
old  as  1818.  I  take  it  from  the  Connecticut  Gazette  of 
1818,  and  it  is  perhaps  the  work  of  one  of  the  wits  who  made 
Hartford  so  distinguished  a  literary  centre  in  that  time.  I 
am  sure  that  the  other  is  more  modern. 

FRANKLIN,    one    night,    cold,    freezing    to    his 

skin, 

Stopped  on  his  journey  at  a  public  inn  ; 
Rejoiced,  perceives  the  kindling  flames  arise, 
But  luckless  sage,  perceives  with  distant  eyes 
A  motley  crowd  monopolize  the  heat, 
Each   firm    as    Banquo's    ghost,    maintains    his 

seat. 

"  Ho ! "  cries  the  doctor  never  at  a  loss, 

"  Landlord,  a  peck  of  oysters  for  my  horse." 


62  Ballads  of 

"  Your  horse  eat  oysters  ? "  cries  the  wondering 

host. 

"  Give  him  a  peck,  you  '11  see  they  won't  be  lost." 
The  crowd  astonished,  rush  into  the  stall : 
"  A  horse  eat  oysters  —  what  with  shells  and  all  ?  " 

Meantime  our  traveller,  as  the  rest  retire, 

Picks  the  best  seat  at  the  deserted  fire ; 

A  place  convenient  for  the  cunning  elf 

To  roast  his  oysters  and  to  warm  himself. 

The  host  returned  —  "  Your  horse  won't  eat  them, 


sir." 


"  Won't  eat  good  oysters  !  he  's  a  simple  cur ; 
I  know  who  will,"  he  adds  in  merry  mood  ; 
"Hand  them  to  me,  a  horse  don't  know  what's 
good." 


New  England  History  63 


AT  THE   INN 

THE  historical  authority  for  this  ballad  is  in  that  earlier 
excellent  ballad,  printed  in  the  Connecticut  Gazette  in  1818. 
I  wish  I  knew  who  wrote  it. 

I  am  told  that  the  story  is  more  than  two  thousand  years 
old.  The  scene  must  have  been  between  New  York  and 
Newport,  and  I  took  the  liberty  to  place  it  at  Willow  Dell. 

IT  was  Mr.   Benjamin   Franklin,  a-carrying  of 

the  mail 
(Sing  ho,  for  the  tallow-chandler's  brother !) ; 

He  had  to  be  at  Newport  Friday  morning  with- 
out fail 
(Sing  rather,  t  'other,  pother,  fuss,  and  bother  !) 

When  passing  Trustum  Pond,  as  he  rode  with 
might  and  main, 

He  was  soaked  to  the  skin  by  the  thunder  and 
the  rain ; 

And  when  he  came  to  Dead  Man's  Brook  his 
pony  stumbled  in, 

And  tumbled  Mr.  Franklin  off,   and  wet  him 

through  again 
(Sing  ho,  for  the  tallow-chandler's  mother  !). 


64  Ballads  of 

"  Speed  up,"  he  cried,  "  and  bring  me  to  the  inn 

at  Willow  Dell " 

(Sing  "ho,  for  the  tallow-chandler's  cousin") ; 
"  Ben  Seegar  there  shall  give  you  oats  and  Hiram 

groom  you  well," 

(Sing  "ten,  eleven,  twelve,  a  baker's  dozen"). 
So  quick  they  strode  along  the  road,  and  here  he 

entered  in, 
And  first,  of  course,  he  left  his  horse  all  wetted 

to  the  skin. 

But  lo !  so  many  people  were  around  the  land- 
lord's fire 
That  he  was  forced  to  stand  outside  and  could  n't 

come  no  nigher 
(Sing  "five  and  four  and  two  and  one  's  a 

dozen  "). 


"  Good  friend,"  said  Mr.  Franklin,  as  if  it  were 

of  course 
(Sing   "Trustum    Bay  and  lobster-claw  and 

clam-shell "), 
"  I  wish  that  you  would  give  a  peck  of  oysters  to 

my  horse  " 

(Sing   "lobster-claw  and  pickerel  and  clam- 
shell"). 


New  England  History  65 

The  landlord  heard  without  a  word ;  and  quick 

as  he  was  able 
He  shelled  the  fish  and  took  the  dish  of  oysters 

to  the  stable ; 
And  with  surprise  in  all  their  eyes,  the  people 

left  the  stranger, 
And  crossed  the  yard  in  tempest  hard,  to  crowd 

around  the  manger. 
Ben  Franklin,  he  cared  not  to  see,  but  took  the 

warmest  seat, 
And  hung  his  coat  above  the  fire,  and  sat  and 

dried  his  feet 

(Sing  "centipede  and    crocodile   and  bomb- 
shell"). 


Five  minutes  more,  and  through  the  door  came 

Mr.  Landlord,  swearing 
(Sing  "Oliver,  Tom  Nopes,   and   Benjamine 

Seegar  ") ; 
And  after  him  came  all  the  folks,  a- wondering 

and  a-staring 
(Sing    "  Oliver,    Queen    Moll,    and    Colonel 

Wager  "). 
"  Your  horse  won't  touch  the  oysters,  sir,  although 

they  're  fresh  and  new,  sir." 

5 


66  Ballads  of 

"  He  won't  ? "  asked  Mr.  Franklin ;   "  That 's  no 

offence  to  you,  sir. 
You  see  he  does  n't  know  what 's  good ;  but  if  he 

don't,  I  do,  sir  " 

(Sing    "rheumatiz    and    gout    and    shaking 
ager"); 

If  he  had  tried  your  oysters  fried  he  might  not 

then  refuse  'em, 
But  I  will  sit  and  toast  my  feet  while  Mistress 

Bowers  stews  'em. 


New  England  History          67 


BLACK  BEARD 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  lobes  of  some  old  lady's  memory  is  the 
rest  of  what  we  connoisseurs  call  <e  Dr.  Hayward's  ballad," 
quoted  above.  It  is  too  good  to  be  lost.  But,  while  I  have 
begged  antiquarians  to  find  it,  I  have  not  succeeded.  Still 
there  is  a  hope  that  it  is  in  an  old  school  reader.  Who 
remembers  it? 

Here  are,  however,  some  verses  by  some  of  my  staff  who 
have  kindly  volunteered  in  a  service  which  requires  new 
rhymes  for  "  Bristol."  They  have  no  historical  value. 

I  'LL  comb  out  the  beard  of  the  man  that 's  afeared 
Be  he  Englishman,  Dutchman,  or  Spaniard ! 

By  God  he  shall  swing 

At  the  end  of  a  string, 
If  I  stretch  out  the  bow-chaser  lanyard ! 
For  we  have  no  use  here,  for  milk  sops  or  fear, 

Says  JoUy  Ned  Teach  of  Bristol. 

Who  will  fool  with  the  girls 
Who  will  dive  for  the  pearls 
In  the  Spaniard's  clear  water  of  crystal  ? 


68  Ballads  of 

It  is  Black  Beard,  you  know, 
And  Black  Beard  will  show 
The  mountains  of  gold  and  silver  untold, 
Says  Jolly  Ned  Teach  of  Bristol. 


Who  will  fool  with  the  girls 
Or  dive  for  the  pearls 
In  the  Spaniard's  clear  waters  of  crystal, 
And  when  we  have  done 
With  that  sort  of  fun, 
Have  flirted  with  all,  and  have  kissed  all, 
Then  up  with  the  kedges  and  off  for  the  sea, 
To  see  in  what  water  the  Gold  Fishes  be, 
Says  Jolly  Ned  Teach  of  Bristol. 


How  the  Admiral  swore 

When  he  swaggered  on  shore, 
For  he  thought  he  was  going  to  enlist  all 
The  hearties  so  free  who  follow  the  sea. 
But  the  Admiral  found  he  had  missed  all ! 

For  the  gentlemen  free  had  all  rather  be 

Where  the  guineas  are  gold  and  the  liquor 
is  free ! 

Said  Jolly  Ned  Teach  of  Bristol. 


New  England  History          69 


"SONG  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT." 

THIS  ballad  is  one  of  the  genuine  ballads,  one  of  the  oldest 
there  is,  composed,  it  is  said,  the  year  of  the  fight.  The 
author  is  unknown.  It  is  printed  in  "Farmer  and  Moore's 
Historical  Collections."  The  historical  facts  here  stated  are 
no  doubt  reliable.  The  date  is  May,  1725. 

OF  worthy  Captain  Lovewell  I  purpose  now  to 

sing, 
How  valiantly  he   served  his  country  and  his 

king ; 
He  and  his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods 

full  wide, 
And  hardships  they  endured  to  quell  the  Indian's 

pride. 

'T  was  nigh  unto  Pigwacket,  on  the  eighth  day 
of  May, 

They  spied  a  rebel  Indian  soon  after  break  of  day ; 

He  on  a  bank  was  walking,  upon  a  neck  of  land 

Which  leads  into  a  pond,  as  we  're  made  to  un- 
derstand. 


70  Ballads  of 

Our  men  resolved  to  have  him,  and  travelled  two 

miles  round 
Until  they  met  the  Indian,  who  boldly  stood  his 

ground, 
Then  spake  up  Captain  Lovewell,  "Take  your 

good  heed,"  says  he  ; 
"  This  rogue  is  to  decoy  us,  I  very  plainly  see. 


"  The  Indians  lie  in  ambush,  in  some  place  nigh 

at  hand, 

In  order  to  surround  us  upon  this  neck  of  land ; 
Therefore  we  '11  march  in  order,  and  each  man 

leave  his  pack 
That  we  may  boldly  fight  them  when  they  shall 

us  attack." 


They  came  unto  the  Indian  who  did  them  thus 

defy; 
As  soon  as  they  come  nigh  him,  two  guns  he  did 

let  fly,  " 
Which  wounded  Captain  Lovewell,  and  likewise 

one  man  more ; 
But  when  this  rogue  was  running,  they  laid  him 

in  his  gore. 


New  England  History  71 

Then  having  scalped  the  Indian,  they  went  back 

to  the  spot 
Where  they  had  laid  their  packs  down,  but  there 

they  found  them  not ; 
For  the  Indians  having  spied  them  when  they 

them  down  did  lay, 
Did  seize  them  for  their  plunder,  and  carry  them 

away. 


These   rebels   lay  in   ambush,   this  very  place 

near  by, 
So  that  an  English   soldier  did  one  of  them 

espy, 
And  cried  out,  "  Here 's  an  Indian ! "  with  that 

they  started  out 
As    fiercely    as    old    lions,    and    hideously   did 

shout. 


With  that  our  valiant  English  all  gave  a  loud 

huzza, 
To  show  the  rebel  Indians  they  feared  them  not 

a  straw ; 

So  now  the  fight  began  as  fiercely  as  could  be  ; 
The  Indians  ran  up  to  them,  but  soon  were 

forced  to  flee. 


72  Ballads  of 

Then  spoke  up  Captain  Lovewell  when  first  the 

fight  began, 
"  Fight  on  my  gallant  heroes  !  you  see  they  fall 

like  rain." 
For  as  we  are  informed   the   Indians  were   so 

thick, 
A  man  could  scarcely  fire  a  gun,  and  not  some 

of  them  hit. 

Then  did  the  rebels  try  their  best  our  soldiers  to 

surround, 
But  they  could  not  accomplish  it  because  there 

was  a  pond, 
To  which  our  men  retreated,  and  covered  all  the 

rear, 
The  rogues  were  forced  to  flee  them,  although 

they  skulked  for  fear. 

Two  bogs  that  were  behind  them  so  close  to- 
gether lay, 

Without  being  discovered  they  could  not  get 
away; 

Therefore  our  valiant  English  they  travelled  in  a 
row, 

And  at  a  handsome  distance,  as  they  were  wont 
to  go. 


New  England  History  73 

'T  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  first  the 

fight  begun, 

And  fiercely  did  continue  until  the  setting  sun, 
Excepting  that  the  Indians  some  hours  before 

'twas  night, 
Drew  off  into  the  bushes,  and  ceased  a  while  to 

fight. 

But  soon  again  returned  in  fierce  and  furious 

mood, 
Shouting  as  in  the  morning,  but  yet  not  half  so 

loud, 
For,  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they 

fell, 
Scarce  twenty  of  their  number  at  night  did  get 

home  well. 


And  that  our  valiant  English  'til  midnight  there 

did  stay 
To  see  whether  the  rebels  would  have  another 

fray; 
But  they  no   more   returning,   they  made    off 

toward  their  home, 
And  brought  away  their  wounded  as  far  as  they 

could  come. 


74  Ballads  of 

Of  all  our  valiant  English  there  were  but  thirty- 
four, 

And  of  the  rebel  Indians  there  were  about  four- 
score. 

And  sixteen  of  our  English  did  safely  home 
return, 

The  rest  were  killed  and  wounded  for  which  we 
all  must  mourn. 


Our  worthy  Captain  Lovewell  among  them  there 

did  die, 
They  killed  Lieutenant  Robbins,  and  wounded 

good  young  Frye, 
Who  was  our  English  chaplain,  he  many  Indians 

flew. 


Young  Fullam,  too,  I  '11  mention,  because  he 

fought  so  well, 

Endeavoring  to  save  a  man,  a  sacrifice  he  fell. 
And  yet  our  valiant  Englishmen  in  fight  were 

ne'er  dismayed, 
But  still  they  kept  their  motion,  and  Wyman 

captain  made. 


New  England  History  75 

Who  shot  the  old  Chief  Paugus,  which  did  the 

foe  defeat, 
Then  set  his  men  in  order,  and  brought  off  the 

retreat, 
And,  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  by  the 

way, 
They  safe  arrived  at  Dunstable  the  thirteenth 

day  of  May. 


76  Ballads  of 


FROM  POTOMAC  TO  MEKRIMAC 
FEBRUARY  11,  1732 

I.  POTOMAC  SIDE 

Do  you  know  how  the  people  of  all  the  land 
Knew  at  last  that  the  time  was  at  hand 
When  He  should  be  sent  to  give  command 
To  armies  and  people,  to  father  and  son ! 
How  the  glad  tidings  of  joy  should  run 
Which  tell  of  the  birth  of  Washington  ? 


Three  women  keep  watch  of  the  midnight  sky 

Where  Potomac  ripples  below ; 
They  watch  till  the  light  in  the  window  hard  by 
The  birth  of  the  child  shall  show. 
Is  it  peace  ?     Is  it  strife  ? 
Is  it  death?     Is  it  life? 
The  light  in  the  window  shall  show ! 
Weal  or  woe ! 
We  shall  know ! 


New  England  History  77 

The  women  have  builded  a  signal  pile 

For  the  birthday's  welcome  flame, 
That  the  light  may  show  for  many  a  mile 
To  tell  when  the  baby  came ! 
And  south  and  north 
The  word  go  forth 
That  the  boy  is  born 
On  that  blessed  morn  ; 
The  boy  of  deathless  fame ! 


II.     SIGNAL    FIRES 

The  watchmen  have  waited  on  Capitol  Hill 
And  they  light  the  signal  flame ; 

And  at  Baltimore  Bay  they  waited  till 
The  welcome  tidings  came ; 

And  then  across  the  starlit  night, 

At  the  head  of  Elk  the  joyful  light 
Told  to  the  Quaker  town  the  story 
Of  new-born  life  and  coming  glory  ! 
To  Trenton  Ferry  and  Brooklyn  Height 
They  sent  the  signal  clear  and  bright, 
And  far  away, 
Before  the  day, 


78  Ballads  of 

To  Kaatskill  and  Greylock  the  joyful  flame  1 
And  everywhere  the  message  came, 

As  the  signal  flew 

The  people  knew 
That  the  man  of  men  was  born ! 


III.     MERRIMAC    SIDE,    AND    AGIOCHOOK 

So  it  is,  they  say,  that  the  men  in  the  bay, 

In  winter's  ice  and  snow, 
See  the  welcome  light  on  Wachusett  Height 
While  the  Merrimac  rolls  below. 
The  cheery  fire 
Rose  higher  and  higher, 
Monadnock  and  Carrigain  catch  the  flame, 
And  on  and  on,  and  on  it  came, 
And  as  men  look 

Far  away  in  the  north 
The  word  goes  forth, 
To  Agiochook. 
The  welcome  fire 
Flashed  higher  and  higher 
To  our  mountain  ways, 

And  the  dome,   and   Moat   and  Pequawket 
blaze ! 


New  England  History  79 

So  the  farmers  in  the  Intervale 
See  the  light  which  shall  never  fail, 
The  beacon  light  which  shines  to  tell 
To  all  the  world  to  say 

That  the  boy  has  been  born 
On  that  winter's  morn 
By  Potomac  far  away. 
Whose  great  command 
Shall  bless  that  land 
Whom  the  land  shall  bless 
In  joy  and  distress 
Forever  and  a  day ! 


8o  Ballads  of 


LOUISBURG 

IN  1745  William  Pepperell  led  the  New  England  seamen 
to  their  eventful  attack  upon  Louisburg.  In  the  success  of 
this  attack  was  foreshadowed  the  success  of  the  American 
Revolution.  A  Boston  paper  of  that  day  contains  these 
stately  verses  which  seem  worth  copying. 

NEPTUNE  and  Mars  in  Council  sate 

To  humble  France's  pride, 
Whose  vain  unbridled  insolence 

All  other  Powers  defied. 

The  gods  having  sat  in  deep  debate 

Upon  the  puzzling  theme, 
Broke  up  perplexed  and  both  agreed 

Shirley  should  form  the  scheme. 

Shirley,  with  Britain's  glory  fired, 
Heaven's  favoring  smile  implored : 

"  Let  Louisburg  return,"  -  —  he  said, 
"  Unto  its  ancient  Lord." 


New  England  History  81 

At  once  the  Camp  and  Fleet  were  filled 

With  Britain's  loyal  sons, 
Whose  hearts  are  filled  with  generous  strife 

T'  avenge  their  Country's  wrongs. 

With  Liberty  their  breasts  are  filled, 

Fair  Liberty  's  their  shield  ; 
'T  is  Liberty  their  banner  waves 

And  hovers  o'er  their  field. 

Louis  !  —  behold  the  unequal  strife, 

Thy  slaves  in  walls  immured  ! 
While  George's  sons  laugh  at  those  walls  — 

Of  victory  assured. 

One  key  to  your  oppressive  pride 
Your  Western  Dunkirk 's  gone ; 

So  Pepperell  and  Warren  bade 
And  what  they  bade  was  done ! 

Forbear,  proud  Prince,  your  gasconades, 

Te  Deums  cease  to  sing,  — 
When  Britons  fight  the  Grand  Monarque 

Must  yield  to  Britain's  King. 

BOSTOJT,  December,  1745 


82  Ballads  of 


D'ANVILLE'S  FLEET 

I  SUPPOSE  that  the  world  never  saw  any  man  more  mad,  as 
the  vernacular  would  say,  than  Louis  XV.  when  he  heard  of 
the  loss  of  Louisburg. 

To  avenge  it,  he  sent  under  D'Anville  the  largest  fleet 
which  had  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic,  in  1746.  The  English 
government  was  asleep  and  made  no  effort  to  arrest  its 
progress. 

Longfellow's  ballad,  which  he  calls  the  "  Ballad  of  the 
French  Fleet,"  tells  its  history.  Men  who  know  say  to  me 
that  on  a  clear  day  if  you  look  down  into  a  smooth  sea,  off 
Cape  Sable,  you  may  see  the  wrecks  as  they  lie  there. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE   FRENCH   FLEET 


A  FLEET  with  flags  arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal :  "  Steer  south-west.' 
For  this  Admiral  d'Anville 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our  helpless  Boston  Town. 


New  England  History  83 

ii 

There  were  rumors  in  the  street, 

In  the  houses  there  was  fear 
Of  the  coining  of  the  fleet, 

And  the  danger  hovering  near ; 
And  while  from  mouth  to  mouth 

Spread  the  tidings  of  dismay, 
I  stood  in  the  Old  South, 

Saying  humbly :  "  Let  us  pray." 

in 

"  O  Lord  !  we  would  not  advise ; 

But  if,  in  thy  providence, 
A  tempest  should  arise 

To  drive  the  French  fleet  hence, 
And  scatter  it  far  and  wide, 

Or  sink  it  in  the  sea, 
We  should  be  satisfied, 

And  thine  the  glory  be." 

IV 

This  was  the  prayer  I  made, 
For  my  soul  was  all  on  flame ; 

And  even  as  I  prayed 

The  answering  tempest  came. 


84  Ballads  of 

It  came  with  a  mighty  power, 
Shaking  the  windows  and  walls, 

And  tolling  the  bell  in  the  tower 
As  it  tolls  at  funerals. 


v 

The  lightning  suddenly 

Unsheathed  its  flaming  sword, 
And  I  cried :  "  Stand  still  and  see 

The  salvation  of  the  Lord ! " 
The  heavens  were  black  with  cloud, 

The  sea  was  white  with  hail, 
And  ever  more  fierce  and  loud 

Blew  the  October  gale. 


VI 

The  fleet  it  overtook, 

And  the  broad  sails  in  the  van 
Like  the  tents  of  Cushan  shook, 

Or  the  curtains  of  Midian. 
Down  on  the  reeling  decks 

Crashed  the  o'erwhelming  seas ; 
Ah,  never  were  there  wrecks 

So  pitiful  as  these ! 


New  England  History  85 

VII 

Like  a  potter's  vessel  broke 

The  great  ships  of  the  line  ; 
They  were  carried  away  as  a  smoke, 

Or  sank  like  lead  in  the  brine. 
O  Lord !   before  thy  path 

They  vanished  and  ceased  to  be, 
When  thou  didst  walk  in  wrath 

With  thine  horses  through  the  sea. 


This  ballad  is  according  to  me  the  best  of  the  American 
ballads.  Mr.  Longfellow  wrote  it  at  the  request  of  the  Old 
South  Committee  as  his  contribution,  which  proved  invalu- 
able, for  the  effort  for  saving  the  Old  South  Meeting  House 
after  the  Boston  fire.  The  ballad  is  a  really  good  historical 
account  of  what  happened.  Prince  was  preaching  in  the  after- 
noon of  a  Fast  Day  ordered  by  Governor  Shirley  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  expectation  of  D'Anville's  Fleet.  All  the  train 
bands  of  Massachusetts  were  encamped  on  Boston  Common 
at  the  time.  The  typhoon  described  swept  over  the  Meeting 
House,  so  that  old  men  half  a  century  afterwards  remembered 
the  storm. 

It  overtook  D'Anville's  Fleet  off  Cape  Sable,  and  as  I  have 
said  the  ships  lie  there  till  this  day. 

Much  of  the  imagery  of  Mr.  Longfellow's  ballad  is  taken 
from  Prince's  Thanksgiving  Sermon  of  the  same  year  in  which 
he  himself  describes  the  storm.  This  sermon  was  reprinted 
in  1774  "to  encourage  the  people  of  God  under  the  execu- 
tion of  the  Boston  Port  BilL" 


86  Ballads  of 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SPRINGFIELD 
MOUNTAIN.     AUGUST  7,  1761 

THIS  ballad  belonging  to  the  year  1773  has  often  been 
commented  and  improved  upon.  The  revision  here  given  is 
that  reproduced  by  Dr.  Stebbins,  and  is,  I  think,  as  accurate 
as  any  text  that  can  be  now  constructed. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  YOUNG  MAN  BITTEN  BY  A 
RATTLESNAKE 


"  ON  Springfield  mountains  there  did  dwell 
A  likely  youth  who  was  knowne  full  well 
Lieutenant  Mirick  's  onley  sone 
A  likely  youth  nigh  twenty  one. 

ii 

"  One  friday  morning  he  did  go 
in  to  the  medow  and  did  moe 
A  round  or  two  then  he  did  feal 
A  pisin  sarpent  at  his  heal. 


New  England  History  87 


in 


"  When  he  received  his  dedly  wond 
he  dropt  his  sithe  a  pon  the  ground 
And  strate  for  home  wase  his  intent 
Caling  aloude  stil  as  he  went 


IV 


"  tho  all  around  his  voys  was  hered 
but  none  of  his  friends  to  him  apiere 
they  thot  it  wase  some  workmen  calld 
and  there  poor  Timothy  alone  must  fall 


"  So  soon  his  Carful  father  went 
to  seek  his  son  with  discontent 
and  there  hes  fond  onley  son  he  found 
ded  as  a  stone  a  pon  the  ground 


VI 

"  And  there  he  lay  down  sopose  to  rest 
with  both  his  hands  Acrost  his  brest 
his  mouth  and  eyes  Closed  fast 
And  there  poor  man  he  slept  his  last 


Ballads  of  New  England  History 


VII 


"  his  father  vieude  his  track  with  great  consarn 
Where  he  had  ran  across  the  corn 
uneven  tracks  where  he  did  go 
did  apear  to  stagger  to  and  frow 


VIII 


The  seventh  of  August  sixty-one 

this  fatal  axsident  was  done 

Let  this  a  warning  be  to  all 

to  be  prepared  when  God  does  call." 


"I  hardly  overstated  the  variety  of  claimants,  or  rather 
authors,  to  whom  this  Elegy  (?)  is  attributed,  to  Daniel  or 
Jesse  Carpenter,  to  a  young  lady  to  whom  young  Merrick  was 
engaged,  and  to  Nathan  Torrey.  The  latter  has  the  honor 
of  authorship,  if  any  reliance  can  be  placed  upon  the  most 
direct  and  authentic  tradition  on  the  subject.  The  original 
has  been  tampered  with  by  editors.  I  have  done  my  best  to 
approach  the  author's  copy."  —  Dr.  Stebbins's  address  at 
Wilbraham. 


THE  OTHER  HALF 


THE  OTHER  HALF 

WE  have  come  to  an  end  of  our  songs  and  ballads  of  the 
preparation  of  the  Pilgrims,  of  the  Colonies,  and  of  the 
Province. 

There  is  yet  to  be  written  the  ballad  of  Boston  Bay,  when, 
in  1747,  the  British  Admiral  impressed  the  Boston  sailors  and 
had  to  give  them  up  again.  But  it  is  not  in  this  inkstand,  and 
I  do  not  know  who  will  write  it. 

With  1770  we  come  to  the  turning-point:  Red-coats  in 
garrison  at  Boston ;  half  the  men  you  meet  in  the  street  in 
soldier's  uniform,  — <e  Lobster  backs  "  we  call  them,  for  we 
have  never  seen  a  soldier  before,  unless  he  were  one  of  our 
own  boys  from  our  own  train  bands,  soldiering  because  we 
needed  him  and  told  him  to  take  his  gun  and  his  powder- 
horn.  Even  then  his  coat  was  blue. 

In  1859,  nearly  ninety  years  after  this  central  date  of 
1770,  I  crossed  the  ocean  in  the  steamboat  Europa,  with 
some  accomplished  English  officers.  One  night  some  of 
them  sang  on  deck,  among  other  things,  the  camp  song  of 
"The  British  Grenadiers,"  with  the  words  then  new,  which 
fitted  the  air  of  the  song  to  the  battles  of  Alma,  Inkerman, 
and  the  rest  of  the  Crimea.  They  were  interested  to  find 
that  my  version  of  the  song  was  nearly  a  hundred  years 
older.  I  have  often  been  sung  to  sleep  by  it,  and  I  have 
sung  other  children  to  sleep  with  it,  as  perhaps  I  may  yet 
sing  grandchildren  to  sleep.  So,  I  will  print  it  here  as  a  New 
England  reminiscence  of  Boston  at  "  the  North  End  "  some- 
where between  1770  and  1775. 


92  Ballads  of 

I  may  as  well  say  here  that  the  word  "  British "  was  in 
familiar  use  in  England  and  Scotland  during  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  after  the  English  and  Scotch  union. 
You  find  it  in  Fielding  and  Smollett,  in  Boswell  and  Dr. 
Johnson.  It  was  in  use  here  in  the  time  of  the  Stamp  Act 
and  of  the  Revolution.  The  familiar  use  of  the  word  died 
out  in  England,  until  within  a  few  years  just  past,  when  it 
has  come  up  again.  But  through  the  nineteenth  century,  it 
was  much  more  common  in  America  than  in  England. 

English  and  Colonial  writers  made  the  anomalous  word 
"  Britisher  "  out  of  it.  But  I  never  heard  this  used  in  New 
England,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  it  ever  was  used  here. 


THE  BRITISH   GRENADIER 


COME,  come  fill  up  your  glasses, 
And  drink  a  health  to  those 

Who  carry  caps  and  pouches,1 
And  wear  their  looped  clothes.2 

1  I  suppose  "pouches"  to  be  a  memorial  of  the  time  when  the 
grenadier  actually  carried  a  hand  grenade  to  be  used  as  the  name 
implies. 

2  In  Gay's  Pastoral,  "  The  Shepherd's  Week,"  the  Shepherd  says, 

"  I  sold  my  sheep,  and  lambkins  too, 
For  silver  loops  and  garment  blue ; 

So  forth  I  far'd  to  court  with  speed, 
Of  soldier's  drum  withouten  dreed  ; 
For  peace  allays  the  shepherd's  fear 
Of  wearing  cap  of  grenadier." 

He  does  this  that  he  may  go  to  Court. 


New  England  History  93 

For  be  you  Whig  or  Tory, 

Or  any  mortal  thing, 
Be  sure  that  you  give  glory 

To  George,  our  gracious  King. 
For  if  you  prove  rebellious, 

He  11  thunder  in  your  ears 
Huzza  !  Huzza !  Huzza !  Huzza  I 

For  the  British  Grenadiers. 


ii 

And  when  the  wars  are  over, 

We  11  march  by  beat  of  drum, 
The  ladies  cry  "  So,  Ho  girls 

The  Grenadiers  have  come  ! 
The  Grenadiers  who  always 

With  love  our  hearts  do  cheer. 
Then  Huzza  !  Huzza !  Huzza !  Huzza  ! 

For  the  British  Grenadier." 


94  Ballads  of 

There  was  one  burlesque  verse  of  pure  Boston  origin 

III 

Their  patriot,  Jimmy  Otis, 

That  bully  in  disguise, 
That  well-known  tyke  of  Yorkshire, 

That  magazine  of  lies. 
And  he  will  mount  the  rostrum 

And  loudly  he  will  bray 
Rebel!  Rebel!  Rebel!  Rebel! 

Rebel  America ! 

After  the  war  began,  the  rebels  made  their  version : 

Vain  Britons,  boast  no  longer 

With  proud  indignity 
By  land,  your  conquering  legions, 

Your  matchless  strength  at  sea : 
Since  we,  your  braver  sons,  incensed 

Our  swords  have  girded  on 
Huzza,  huzza,  huzza 

For  war  and  Washington ! 

with  much  more  of  the  same  sort. 


New  England  History  95 


PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

THE  reader  must  turn  to  Dr.  Holmes  for  the  ballad  of  the 
Tea  Party.  And  when  we  come  to  the  eighteenth  of  April, 
when  Paul  Revere  went  out  from  Boston  by  water  and  William 
Dawes  by  land  to  waken  Middlesex  County,  there  comes  in 
Mr.  Longfellow's  "  Ride  of  Paul  Revere,"  which  every  New 
England  schoolboy  knows  by  heart. 

This  is  the  beginning  and  end  of  this  celebrated  ballad. 
It  is  printed  with  the  consent  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.  and  will  be  found  in  full  in  their  collections  of  Long- 
fellow's Poems.  The  authority  for  it  is  Revere's  own  narra- 
tive in  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Collection,  First  Series, 
Vol.  V.  p.  106.  The  date  is  Jan.  1,  1798. 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five ; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 

By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 

Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 

Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light,  — 

One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea  ; 

And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be 


96  Ballads  of 

Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said,  "  Good  night ! "  and  with  muffled 

oar 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war  ; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 
Meanwhile  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears, 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North 

Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 
To  the  belfry  chamber  overhead, 


New  England  History  97 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters  that  round  him  made 
Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 
By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

•  •••••• 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned,  and  tightened  his  saddle  girth ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light  1 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 


98  Ballads  of 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog, 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 


New  England  History  99 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books   you   have 

read, 

How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane, 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere  ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night- wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  and  hear, 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 


ioo  Ballads  of 


NEW  ENGLAND'S  CHEVY  CHASE 

LORD  PERCY  went  to  the  relief  of  Colonel  Smith  early  in 
the  day.  As  he  passed  the  Dudley  Stone  at  Roxbury  he 
noticed  a  Roxbury  boy  who  appeared  to  be  ridiculing  the 
Red-Coats.  Percy  sent  to  the  boy  to  reprove  him.  To  which 
the  little  rebel  replied  by  this  allusion  to  the  noble  house  of 
Percy. 

"  You  go  out  to  '  Yankee  Doodle/  but  you  '11  dance  by  and 
by  to  ( Chevy  Chase.'  " 

We  owe  the  story,  which  is  probably  true,  to  Dr.  Gordon,  a 
Roxbury  man.  He  says  that  the  repartee  stuck  to  Percy  all 
the  rest  of  the  day.  Horace  Walpole  speaks  of  "  the  hunting 
of  that  day."  The  lines  of  the  old  «  Chevy  Chase  "  are, 

"  The  child  unborn 
Shall  rue  the  hunting  of  that  day." 

I 

'T  WAS  the  dead  of  the  night.     By  the  pine- 
knot's  red  light 
Brooks  lay,  half-asleep,  when  he  heard  the 

alarm,  — 
Only  this,  and  no  more,  from   a  voice  at  the 

door : 

"The  Red-Coats   are  out,   and  have  passed 
Phips's  farm." 


New  England  History  101 

n 

Brooks  was  booted  and  spurred ;  he  said  never  a 

word; 
Took  his  horn  from  its  peg,  and  his  gun  from 

the  rack ; 
To  the  cold  midnight  air  he  led  out  his  white 

mare, 

Strapped  the  girths  and  the  bridle,  and  sprang 
to  her  back. 

in 

Up  the  North  County  road,  at  her  full  pace  she 

strode, 
Till  Brooks  reined  her  up  at  John  Tarbell's 

to  say, 
"  We  have  got  the  alarm,  —  they  have  left  Phips's 

farm ; 

You  rouse  the  East  Precinct,  and  I  '11  go  this 
way." 

IV 

John  called  his  hired  man,  and  they  harnessed 

the  span ; 

They  roused    Abram    Garfield,   and   Abram 
called  me : 


102  Ballads  of 

"Turn    out   right   away;    let    no   minute-man 

stay; 

The  Red-Coats  have  landed  at  Phips's,"  says 
he. 

v 

By  the  Powder-House  Green  seven  others  fell  in ; 
At  Nahum's  the  men  from  the  Saw-Mill  came 

down ; 
So  that  when  Jabez  Bland  gave  the  word  of 

command, 

And  said,  "  Forward,  march  ! "  there  marched 
forward  The  Town. 


VI 

Parson  Wilderspin    stood  by  the  side  of  the 

road, 
And  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  he  said,  "  Let  us 

pray! 
O   Lord,    God   of   Might,   let   thine  angels   of 

light 
Lead  thy  children  to-night  to  the  glories  of 

day, 

And  let  thy  stars  fight  all  the  foes  of  the  Right 
As  the  stars  fought  of  old  against  Sisera." 


New  England  History         103 

VII 

And  from  heaven's  high  arch  those  stars  blessed 

our  march, 

Till  the  last  of  them  faded  in  twilight  away  ; 
And  with  morning's  bright  beam,  by  the  bank 

of  the  stream, 

Half  the  county  marched  in,  and  we  heard 
Davis  say : 

VIII 

"  On  the  King's  own  highway  I  may  travel  all 

day, 

And  no  man  hath  warrant  to  stop  me,"  says  he  ; 
"  I  Ve  no  man  that 's  afraid,  and  I  '11  march  at 

their  head." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  boys,  "  Forward,  march  ! 
Follow  me." 

IX 

And  we  marched  as  he  said ;  and  the  Fifer  he 

played 
The  old  "  White  Cockade,"  and  he  played  it 

right  well. 

We  saw  Davis  fall  dead,  but  no  man  was  afraid ; 
That  bridge  we  'd  have  had,  though  a  thousand 
men  fell. 


104  Ballads  of 

x 

This  opened  the  play,  and  it  lasted  all  day. 
We  made  Concord  too  hot  for  the  Red-Coats 

to  stay ; 
Down  the  Lexington  way  we  stormed,  black, 

white,  and  gray ; 

We  were  first  in  the  feast,  and  were  last  in  the 
fray. 

XI 

They  would  turn  in  dismay,  as  red  wolves  turn 

at  bay. 
They  levelled,  they  fired,  they  charged  up  the 

road. 

Cephas  Willard  fell  dead  ;  he  was  shot  in  the  head 
As  he  knelt  by  Aunt  Prudence's  well-sweep 
to  load. 

XII 

John  Danforth  was  hit  just  in  Lexington  Street, 
John  Bridge  at  that  lane  where  you  cross  Beaver 

Falls, 
And  Winch  and  the  Snows  just  above   John 

Monroe's,  — 

Swept  away  by  one  swoop  of  the  big  cannon 
balls. 


New  England  History         105 

XIII 

I  took  Bridge  on  my  knee,  but  he  said,  "  Don't 

mind  me ; 
Fill  your  horn  from  mine,  —  let  me  lie  where 

I  be. 
Our  fathers,"  says  he,  "  that  their  sons  might  be 

free, 
Left  their  king  on  his  throne,  and  came  over 

the  sea ; 
And  that  man  is  a  knave  or  a  fool  who,   to 

save 

His    life  for    a   minute,    would   live   like   a 
slave." 

XIV 

Well,  all  would  not  do !     There  were  men  good 

as  new,  — 
From  Rumford,  from  Saugus,  from  towns  far 

away,  — 
Who  filled   up  quick  and  well  for  each  soldier 

that  fell ; 
And  we  drove  them,  and  drove  them,  and 

drove  them,  all  day. 

We  knew,  every  one,  it  was  war  that  begun, 
When  that  morning's  marching  was  only  half 

done. 


106  Ballads  of 

XV 

In  the  hazy  twilight,  at  the  coming  of  night, 

I  crowded  three  buckshot  and  one  bullet  down. 
'T  was  my  last  charge  of  lead ;  and  I  aimed  her 

and  said, 

"Good  luck  to  you,  lobsters,  in  old  Boston 
Town." 

XVI 

In  a  barn  at   Milk  Row,  Ephraim  Bates  and 

Monroe, 

And  Baker,  and  Abram,  and  I  made  a  bed. 
We  had   mighty  sore  feet,  and  we'd  nothing 

to  eat ; 
But  we  'd  driven  the  Red- Coats,  and  Amos,  he 

said: 
"  It  Js  the  first  time,"  says  he,  "  that  it 's  happened 

to  me 
To  march  to  the  sea  by  this  road  where  we  Ve 

come; 
But  confound  this  whole  day,  but  we  'd  all  of  us 

say 

We  'd  rather  have  spent  it  this  way  than  to 
home."1 

1  One  of  the  veterans  of  the  Lexington  fight  told  his  story  of  it  to 
Mr.  Edward  Everett.  Mr.  Everett  said,  "  You  have  never  regretted 
that  day,  I  am  sure,"  and  the  old  man  replied,  "  Well,  I  'd  rather 
have  spent  it  so  than  to  hum." 


New  England  History          107 

XVII 

The  hunt  had  begun  with  the  dawn  of  the  sun, 
And  night  saw  the  wolf  driven  back  to  his  den. 

And  never  since  then,  in  the  memory  of  men, 
Has  the  Old  Bay  State  seen  such  a  hunting 
again. 

APRIL  19,  1882. 


io8  Ballads  of 


A  SONG 

COMPOSED  BY  THE  BRITISH  SOLDIERS,  AFTER  THE  FIGHT  AT  BUNKER 
HILL,  JUNE  17, 1775 

DR.  HOLMES  has  covered  the  story  of  Bunker  Hill  in 
"  Grandmamma's  Ballad,"  but  I  copy  a  few  verses  from  a 
contemporary  broadside,  printed  to  encourage  recruiting  for 
English  Arms.  There  are  other  "  popular  "  ballads  of  the 
same  kind :  — 

IT  was  on  the  seventeenth  by  brake  of  day, 

The  Yankees  did  surprise  us, 
With  their  strong  works  they  had  thrown  up, 

To  burn  the  town  and  drive  us ; 
But  soon  we  had  an  order  come, 

An  order  to  defeat  them  : 
Like  rebels  stout  they  stood  it  out 

And  thought  we  ne'er  could  beat  them. 

About  the  hour  of  twelve  that  day, 

An  order  came  for  marching, 
With  three  good  flints  and  sixty  rounds, 

Each  man  hop'd  to  discharge  them. 


New  England  History         109 

We  marched  down  to  the  long  wharf, 
Where  boats  were  ready  waiting ; 

With  expedition  we  embark'd, 
Our  ships  kept  cannonading. 

And  when  our  boats  all  filled  were 

With  officers  and  soldiers, 
With  as  good  troops  as  England  had, 

To  oppose  who  dare  controul  us ;  j 
And  when  our  boats  all  filled  were 

We  row'd  in  line  of  battle, 
Where  show'rs  of  balls  like  hail  did  fly, 

Our  cannon  loud  did  rattle. 

There  's  some  in  Boston  pleas'd  to  say, 

As  we  the  field  were  taking, 
We  went  to  kill  their  countrymen, 

While  they  their  hay  were  making ; 
For  such  stout  Whigs  I  never  saw ; 

To  hang  them  all  I  'd  rather, 
For  making  hay  with  musket-balls, 

And  buck-shot  mixed  together. 

Brave  Howe  is  so  considerate, 

As  to  prevent  all  danger ; 
He  allows  half  a  pint  a  day, 

To  rum  we  are  no  strangers. 


no  Ballads  of 

Long  may  he  live  by  land  and  sea, 
For  he  's  beloved  by  many  ; 

The  name  of  Howe  the  Yankees  dread, 
We  see  it  very  plainly. 

And  now  my  song  is  at  an  end ; 

And  to  conclude  my  ditty, 
It  is  the  poor  and  ignorant, 

And  only  them,  I  pity. 
As  for  their  king  John  Hancock, 

And  Adams,  if  they  're  taken, 
Their  heads  for  signs  shall  hang  up  high 

Upon  that  hill  calTd  Bacon. 


New  England  History         m 


AN  American  ballad  to  the  tune  of  Anacreon  in  Heaven 
appeared  in  a  Boston  paper  at  some  time  in  the  'Forties  of 
the  last  century ;  but  though  the  ring  is  good,  it  is  clearly 
modern.  This  will  be  enough  of  it. 

WE   lay  in  the  trenches  we  'd  dug  in  the 

ground 

While  Phoebus  blazed  down  from  his  Glory- 
lined  car ; 

And  then  from  the  lips  of  our  Leader  re- 
nowned 

This  lesson  we  heard  in  the  Science  of  War  1 
"  Let  the  foemen  draw  nigh 
Till  the  White  of  his  Eye 
Is  in  range  with  your  Rifles,  and  then,  Lads  ! 

Let  Fly ! 

And  show  to  Columbia,  to  Britain,  and  Fame, 
How  Justice  smiles  awful  when  Freemen  take 
Aim!" 


ii2  Ballads  of 


THE   MARCHING  SONG  OF 
STARK'S   MEN 

[THE  Battle  of  Bennington  was  the  turning-point  of  the 
Revolution.  It  is  fair,  therefore,  to  call  the  day  when  it  was 
fought  the  crisis  day  of  Modern  History.] 

MARCH  !  March  !  March  !  from  sunrise  till  it 's 

dark, 

And  let  no  man  straggle  on  the  way ! 
March !  March !  March !  as  we  follow  old  John 

Stark, 
For  the  old  man  needs  us  all  to-day. 


Load !    Load !   Load !    Three   buckshot    and  a 

ball, 
With  a  hymn-tune  for  a  wad  to  make  them 

stay ! 
But  let  no  man  dare  to  fire  till  he  gives  the  word 

toaU, 
Let  no  man  let  the  buckshot  go  astray. 


New  England  History         113 

Fire  !  Fire  !  Fire  !  Fire  all  along  the  line, 

When  we  meet  those  bloody  Hessians  in 

array ! 

They  shall  have  every  grain  from  this  powder- 
horn  of  mine, 
Unless  the  cowards  turn  and  run  away. 

Home !    Home !    Home !    When   the    fight   is 

fought  and  won, 
To  the  home  where  the  women  watch  and 

pray! 
To  tell  them  how  John  Stark  finished  what  he 

had  begun, 

And  to  hear  them  thank  our  God  for  the 
day. 

AUGUST  16,  1777. 

"  The  year  of  the  triple  Gallows "  was  the  joke  of  the 
patriots  of  the  time:  the  reference  was  to  7  three  times 
repeated. 


ii4  Ballads  of 


CONCORD  BRIDGE 


THERE  's  peace  and  quiet  by  Yorkshire  Bridge 

Where  early  sunbeams  fall, 
There 's  a  drowsy  hum  in  the  summer  morn, 
And  the  far-away  note  of  the  hunter's  horn 

Brings  back  an  answering  call. 

Two  fair-haired  boys  meet  by  the  bridge, 
At  that  far-away  answering  call. 


II 

There's  bustle  and  hurry  on  London  Bridge, 

With  its  ceaseless  come  and  go  :  — 
There 's  the  tramp  of  feet  and  the  roll  of  drums, 
And  the  cold,  clear  note  of  the  bugle  comes 
Up  from  the  ships  below ! 

Two  soldiers  are  waiting  hard  by  the  bridge 
Watching  the  ships  below. 


New  England  History         115 

in 

There 's  a  call  to  arms  by  Charlestown  Bridge  ! 

And  ere  the  cock  has  crowed, 
There 's  a  rattle  of  guns,  there 's  a  muffled  tread, 
And  the  low  stern  voice  of  command  ahead 

As  they  swing  up  the  country  road. 

Two  comrades  are  marching  across  the  bridge 
As  they  swing  up  the  country  road. 

IV 

There 's  peace  and  quiet  by  Concord  Bridge 

After  the  angry  fight,  — 

There 's  the  stillness  of  death  in  the  lonely  spot. 
Though  the  far-away  sound  of  a  musket  shot 

Comes  faint  through  the  soft  twilight. 

Two  English  soldiers  are  sleeping  there  — 
And  they  dream  of  home  and  the  early  dawn 
When  the  far-away  note  of  the  hunting  horn 
Came  faint  through  the  evening  air. 


n6  Ballads  of 


THE  YANKEY'S  RETURN  FROM 
CAMP 

I  REPRINT  this  authentic  copy  of  this  well-known  ballad  for 
two  reasons.  First,  as  I  think,  this  is  the  earliest  copy  known. 
Mr.  Barton,  of  the  Antiquarian  Society,  is  so  good  as  to  furnish 
it  for  me  from  their  invaluable  collection. 

Second,  an  autograph  note  of  Judge  Dawes,  of  the  Harvard 
class  of  1777,  addressed  to  my  father,  says  that  the  author  of 
the  well-known  lines  was  Edward  Bangs,  who  graduated  with 
him.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  how  the  class  of  '77,  which  was 
first  at  Cambridge  in  1773  and  '74,  was  carried  to  Concord  in 

1775,  and  returned  to  Old  Hollis  and  Old  Massachusetts  in 

1776,  must  have  been  affected  by  the  arrival  of  the  minute- 
men,  the  gathering  of  Artemas  Ward's  army,  and  the  inaugu- 
ration of  Washington.     It  seems  to  me  that  the  poem  has  a 
special  interest  from  the  knowledge  that  it  was  written  by  a 
college  lad  of  those  days.     I  beg  the  members  of  the  Insti- 
tute of  1770  to  find  some  trace  of  something  like  it  in  their 
Revolutionary   Records.     Mr.   Bangs  had,  as  a  college  boy, 
joined  the   Middlesex  farmers  in  the  pursuit  of  April   19, 
1775.     He  was  afterward  a  Judge  in  Worcester  County. 

The  College  was  transferred  from  Cambridge  to  Concord  in 
September,  1 775.  At  any  period  between  the  twentieth  of 
April  and  September,  young  Bangs,  who  was  a  sophomore, 
could  have  seen  what  he  describes. 


New  England  History         117 

FATHER  and  I  went  down  to  camp, 

Along  with  Captain  Gooding. 
And  there  we  see  the  men  and  boys, 

As  thick  as  hasty  pudding. 
Chorus.  —  Yankey  doodle,  keep  it  up, 

Yankey  doodle,  dandy, 
Mind  the  music  and  the  step, 
And  with  the  girls  be  handy. 

And  there  we  see  a  thousand  men, 

As  rich  as  'Squire  David  ; 
And  what  they  wasted  every  day, 

I  wish  it  could  be  saved. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 

The  lasses  they  eat  every  day, 

Would  keep  an  house  a  winter : 
They  have  as  much  that  I  '11  be  bound 

They  eat  it  when  they  're  a  mind  to. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 

And  there  we  see  a  swamping  gun, 

Large  as  a  log  of  maple, 
Upon  a  deucid  little  cart, 

A  load  for  father's  cattle. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


n8  Ballads  of 

And  every  time  they  shoot  it  off, 

It  takes  a  horn  of  powder, 
And  makes  a  noise  like  father's  gun, 

Only  a  nation  louder. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


I  went  as  nigh  to  one  myself, 

As  siah's  underpinning ; 
And  father  went  as  nigh  again, 

I  thought  the  deuce  was  in  him. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


Cousin  simon  grew  so  bold, 

I  thought  he  would  have  cock'd  it ; 

It  scar'd  me  so  I  shrink'd  it  off, 
And  hung  by  father's  pocket. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


And  Captain  Davis  had  a  gun, 
He  kind  of  clap'd  his  hand  on't, 

And  stuck  a  crooked  stabbing  Iron 
Upon  the  little  end  on 't. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


New  England  History         119 

And  there  I  see  a  pumpkin  shell 

As  big  as  mother's  bason ; 
And  every  time  they  touch'd  it  off, 

They  scamper 'd  like  the  nation. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


I  see  a  little  barrel  too, 

The  heads  were  made  of  leather, 
They  knock'd  upon  't  with  little  clubs, 

And  calTd  the  folks  together. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


And  there  was  Captain  WASHINGTON, 

And  gentlefolks  about  him, 
They  say  he 's  grown  so  tarnal  proud, 

He  will  not  ride  without  'em. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


He  got  him  on  his  meeting  cloathes, 

Upon  a  slapping  stallion, 
He  set  the  world  along  in  rows, 

In  hundreds  and  in  millions. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


120  Ballads  of 

The  flaming  ribbons  in  his  hat, 
They  look'd  so  taring  fine  ah, 

I  wanted  pockily  to  get, 
To  give  to  my  Jemimah. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


I  see  another  snarl  of  men 

A  digging  graves,  they  told  me, 

So  tarnal  long,  so  tarnal  deep, 

They  'tended  they  should  hold  me. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 

It  scar'd  me  so,  I  hook'd  it  off, 

Nor  stop'd,  as  I  remember, 
Nor  turn'd  about  till  I  got  home, 

Lock'd  up  in  mother's  chamber. 

Yankey  doodle,  etc. 


New  England  History         121 


THE  YANKEE  PRIVATEER 

THE  incident  referred  to  in  this  ballad  is  perfectly  authenti- 
cated. Of  the  ten  prizes  taken  by  Whipple  in  successive 
nights,  nine  arrived  safely  into  Massachusetts  harbors. 

"  Old  Whipple  "  is  Abraham  Whipple,  one  of  the  Rhode 
Island  Vikings.  After  the  war  he  went  out  with  Abraham 
Cutter  to  Marietta,  and  he  is  thus  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
State  of  Ohio.  At  Marietta  he  built  the  first  ship  which 
ever  went  to  sea  from  Ohio.  A  good  deal  of  ship-building 
was  carried  on  in  Ohio  after  the  success  of  this  voyage.  The 
ships  were  built  where  timber  was  plenty,  and  were  then 
sent  down  the  rivers  to  "  Orleans  "  never  to  return  to  their 
birthplace. 

COME  listen  and  I  '11  tell  you 

How  first  I  went  to  sea, 
To  fight  against  the  British 

And  earn  our  liberty. 
We  shipped  with  Cap'n  Whipple 

Who  never  knew  a  fear, 
The  Captain  of  the  Providence, 

The  Yankee  Privateer. 


122  Ballads  of 

We  sailed  and  we  sailed 

And  made  good  cheer, 
There  were  many  pretty  men 

On  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

The  British  Lord  High  Admiral 

He  wished  old  Whipple  harm, 
He  wrote  that  he  would  hang  him 

At  the  end  of  his  yard  arm. 
"  My  Lord,"  wrote  Cap'n  Whipple  back, 

"  It  seems  to  me  it 's  clear 
That  if  you  want  to  hang  him, 

You  must  catch  your  Privateer." 

We  sailed  and  we  sailed 

And  made  good  cheer, 
For  not  a  British  frigate 

Could  come  near  the  Privateer. 

We  sailed  to  the  south'ard, 

And  nothing  did  we  meet 
Till  we  found  three  British  frigates 

And  their  West  Indian  fleet. 
Old  Whipple  shut  our  ports 

As  he  crawled  up  near, 
And  he  sent  us  all  below 

On  the  Yankee  Privateer. 


New  England  History         123 

So  slowly  he  sailed 

We  dropped  to  the  rear, 
And  not  a  soul  suspected 

The  Yankee  Privateer. 

At  night  we  put  the  lights  out 

And  forward  we  ran 
And  silently  we  boarded 

The  biggest  merchantman. 
We  knocked  down  the  watch,  — 

And  the  lubbers  shook  for  fear, 
She 's  a  prize  without  a  shot, 

To  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

We  sent  the  prize  north 

While  we  lay  near 
And  all  day  we  slept 

On  the  bold  Privateer. 

For  ten  nights  we  followed, 

And  ere  the  moon  rose, 
Each  night  a  prize  we  'd  taken 

Beneath  the  Lion's  nose. 
When  the  British  looked  to  see 

Why  their  ships  should  disappear, 
They  found  they  had  in  convoy 

A  Yankee  Privateer. 


124  Ballads  of 

But  we  sailed  and  sailed 
And  made  good  cheer ! 

Not  a  coward  was  on  board 
Of  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

The  biggest  British  frigate 

Bore  round  to  give  us  chase, 
But  though  he  was  the  fleeter 

Old  Whipple  would  n't  race, 
Till  he  'd  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 

For  the  lubbers  could  n't  steer, 
Then  he  showed  them  the  heels 

Of  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

Then  we  sailed  and  we  sailed 
And  we  made  good  cheer, 

For  not  a  British  frigate 

Could  come  near  the  Privateer. 

Then  northward  we  sailed 

To  the  town  we  all  know, 
And  there  lay  our  prizes, 

All  anchored  in  a  row  ; 
And  welcome  were  we 

To  our  friends  so  dear, 
And  we  shared  a  million  dollars 

On  the  bold  Privateer. 


New  England  History         125 

We  'd  sailed  and  we  'd  sailed 

And  we  made  good  cheer, 
We  had  all  full  pockets 

On  the  bold  Privateer. 

Then  we  each  manned  a  ship 

And  our  sails  we  unfurled, 
And  we  bore  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

O'er  the  oceans  of  the  world. 
From  the  proud  flag  of  Britain 

We  swept  the  seas  clear, 
And  we  earned  our  independence 

On  the  Yankee  Privateer. 

Then  landsmen  and  sailors, 

One  more  cheer ! 
Here  is  three  times  three 

For  the  Yankee  Privateer ! 


JULY,  1779. 


i26  Ballads  of 


THE  OLD   SOUTH  PICTURE- 
GALLERY 

To  hide  the  time-stains  on  our  wall 
Let  every  tattered  banner  fall ! 
The  Bourbon  lilies,  green  and  old, 
That  flaunted  once  in  burnished  gold  ; 
The  oriflamme  of  France  that  fell 
That  day  when  sunburned  Pepperrell 
His  shotted  salvos  fired  so  well, 
The  fleur  de  Lys  trailed  sulky  down, 
And  Louisburg  was  George's  town. 
The  Bourbon  yields  it  in  despair 
To  Saxon  arm  and  Pilgrim  prayer. 

Hang  there  the  Lion  and  the  Tower, 
Pale  emblems  of  Castilian  power, 
The  flags  which  Lyman  brought  away 
In  triumph  from  Havana  Bay 
A  hundred  years  ago. 


New  England  History         127 

Lion  and  tower  have  to  fall 
Unwilling  from  the  Morro  wall, 
As  at  the  Yankee  fife  and  drum 
New  England  and  her  train-bands  come, 
They  swim  the  moat ;  they  climb  the  ledge, 
They  drive  the  sentries  from  the  edge, 
They  storm  the  Morro  on  the  steep, 
And  tear  away  the  flags  to  keep, 
That  so  our  walls  may  show 
To  England  and  to  dying  Spain 
How  freedom  makes  our  sort  of  men. 


Hang  there,  and  there,  the  dusty  rags 
Which  once  were  jaunty  battle  flags, 
And  for  a  week,  in  triumph  vain, 
Gay  flaunted  over  blue  Champlain, 
Gayly  had  circled  half  the  world, 
Until  they  dropped,  disgraced  and  furled, 

That  day  the  Hampshire  line 
Stood  to  its  arms  at  dress  parade, 
Beneath  the  Stars  and  Stripes  arrayed, 

And  Massachusetts  Pine, 
To  see  the  great  atonement  made 

By  Riedesel  and  Burgoyne. 


128  Ballads  of 

Eagles  which  Caesar's  hand  had  fed, 
Banners  which  Charlemagne  had  led, 

A  thousand  years  before, 
A  dozing  empire  meanly  gave 
To  be  the  eagles  of  a  slave, 
And  let  the  mean  Elector  wave 

Those  banners  on  our  shore. 

The  mean  Elector  basely  sold 
Eagle  and  flag  for  George's  gold ; 

And  in  the  storm  of  war, 
In  crash  of  battle,  thick  and  dark, 
Beneath  the  rifle-shot  of  Stark, 
The  war-worn  staff,  the  crest  of  gold, 
The  scutcheon  proud  and  storied  fold, 
In  surges  of  defeat  were  rolled. 
So  even  Roman  banners  fall, 
To  screen  the  time-stains  on  our  wall ! 

Between  the  Roman  and  the  Gaul 
See  where  our  English  colors  fall ! 
Yes !  under  there  we  led  the  way 
With  Wolfe,  and  in  Havana  Bay ; 
But  when  the  time  had  come, 
That  cross  of  white,  that  cross  of  red, 
Fell  in  their  turn,  that  in  their  stead 


New  England  History          129 

The  pine-tree  and  the  thirteen  bars, 

At  sound  of  Yankee  fife  and  drum, 
Might  float  on  Beacon  Hill  that  day, 

That  happy  spring-time  morning  when 

In  triumph  he,  our  first  of  men, 

Rode  along  Boston  Neck,  the  day 
Howe  and  his  red-coats  sailed  away. 
So  white-robed  peace  resumed  her  sway 
For  us  the  dwellers  by  the  Bay. 

The  cross  which  stubborn  Endicott 
Had  from  King  Charles's  ensign  cut, 

Shall  on  our  Beacon  wave  no  more  ! 

No !  from  that  hour  till  now, 
No  foeman's  foot  has  found  its  way, 
Across  the  marches  of  our  Bay, 

Nor  foreign  eagles  sought  our  shore. 

Beneath  the  war-flag's  faded  fold 
I  see  our  sovereigns  of  old 

On  magic  canvas  there. 
The  tired  face  of  "  baby  Charles  " 
Looks  sadly  down  from  Pilgrim  walls, 

Half  pride  and  half  despair, 
Doubtful  to  flatter  or  to  strike, 

To  cozen  or  to  dare. 

9 


130  Ballads  of 

His  steel  clad  charger  he  bestrides 
As  if  to  smite  the  Ironsides, 
When  Rupert  with  his  squadron  rides ; 
Yet  such  his  gloomy  brow  and  eye, 
You  wonder  if  he  will  not  try 
Once  more  the  magic  of  a  lie 
To  lift  him  from  his  care. 


Hold  still  your  truncheon !     If  it  moves, 
The  ire  of  Cromwell's  rage  it  braves  1 

For  the  next  picture  shows 
The  grim  Protector  on  his  steed, 
Ready  to  pray,  to  strike,  to  lead,  — 
Dare  all  for  England,  which  he  saves, 

New  England,  which  he  loves. 

Vandyck  drew  Charles.     'T  is  Kneller  there 
Has  pictured  a  more  peaceful  pair  ; 
There  Orange  gives  his  last  command, 
The  charter  gives  to  Mather's  hand  ; 
And  blooming  there,  the  queenly  she, 
Who  takes  "  now  counsel,  and  now  tea," 
Confounding  Blenheim  and  Bohea, 
Careless  of  war's  alarm. 


New  England  History          131 

Yet  as  of  old,  the  virgin  Queen, 
When  armed  for  victory,  might  press 
The  smoky  firelock  of  "  Brown  Bess," 
So  Anna,  in  a  fond  caress, 

Rests  on  a  black  "  Queen's  Arm." 
Beneath  those  forms  another  band, 
Silent  but  eloquent,  shall  stand. 
There  is  no  uttered  voice  nor  speech 
As  still  of  liberty  they  teach  ; 
No  language  and  no  sound  is  heard, 
Yet  still  the  everlasting  word 
Goes  forth  to  thrill  the  land. 
Story  and  Greenough  shall  compel 
The  silent  marble  forms  to  tell 
The  lesson  that  they  told  so  well, 

Lesson  of  Fate  and  Awe,  — 
Franklin  still  point  the  common  place 

Of  Liberty  and  Law  ; 
Adams  shall  look  in  Otis'  face, 

Blazing  with  Freedom's  soul ; 
And  Molyneux  see  Hancock  trace 
The  fatal  word  which  frees  a  race, 
There  in  New  England's  well-earned  place, 

The  head  of  Freedom's  roll. 


132  Ballads  of 

These  are  not  all.     The  past  is  gone, 
But  other  victories  shall  be  won, 
For  which  the  time-worn  tale  we  read 
Is  but  the  sowing  of  the  seed. 
The  harvest  shall  be  gathered  when 
Our  children's  children  meet  again 

Upon  the  time-worn  floor  ; 
When  ruddy  drops  flush  living  cheek, 
And  tribunes  of  the  people  speak 
As  living  man  can  speak  to  living  men ; 
When  future  Adamses  conspire, 
When  other  Danas  feed  the  fire, 
Each  grandson  worthy  of  his  sire ; 
When  other  Phillipses  shall  tell 
Again  the  tale  he  tells  so  well ; 
When  other  Minots  shall  record 
The  victories  of  some  other  Ward, 
And  other  Prescotts  tell  the  story 
Of  other  Warrens'  death  and  glory ; 
When,  in  some  crisis  of  the  land, 
Some  other  Quincy  takes  the  stand, 
To  teach,  to  quicken,  to  command,  — 

To  speak  with  prophet's  power 
Of  Liberty  and  Law  combined, 
Of  Justice  close  with  Mercy  joined, 


New  England  History         133 

United  in  one  hand  and  mind ; 

That  talisman  of  victory  find 

In  which  our  laurels  all  are  twined,  — 

And  for  one  struggle  more 
Forget  those  things  which  lie  behind, 

And  reach  to  those  before. 


134  Ballads  of 


ANOTHER  CENTURY 

THE  unpleasantness  with  France  at  the  end  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  and  the  Algerine  wars  furnished  their  contri- 
bution, such  as  they  are,  to  ballad  literature.  There  are  one 
or  two  poems  of  western  emigration,  some  ridiculing  it,  some 
approving  it. 

The  adoption  of  the  Federal  Constitution  brought  its 
share.  Here  comes  what  amuses  a  Boston  ear. 

Convention  did  in  State  House  meet, 
And  when  it  would  n't  hold  'em, 
They  all  went  down  to  Federal  Street, 
And  there  the  truth  was  told  them. 

The  short  war  with  England  brought  an  immense  crop  of 
sailor  songs  and  other  songs.  I  would  print  "  Bold  Dacres 
came  on  board,"  which  is  perhaps  the  only  sailor  song  which 
has  survived,  but  that  it  is  so  well  remembered  on  every 
American  forecastle.  It  begins  : 

I  often  have  been  told 
That  the  British  seamen  bold 
Could  beat  the  tars  of  France 
Neat  and  handy,  O. 

But  they  never  got  their  match 
Till  the  Yankees  did  them  catch, 
For  the  Yankee  tars  for  fighting 
Are  the  dandy,  O. 

What  is  not  so  well  known,  and  may  be  worth  pre- 
serving, is  the  retaliatory  song  to  the  same  air,  which  was 


New  England  History          135 

written  by  some  English  ballad-monger  after  the  Shannon 
took  the  Chesapeake.  I  am  able  to  print  it  by  the  kindness 
of  Mr.  James  E.  Whitney,  Jr. 

CHESAPEAKE   AND   SHANNON 

"  THE  Chesapeake  so  bold 
Out  of  Boston,  I  Ve  been  told, 
Came  to  take  a  British  Frigate 

Neat  and  handy,  O  ! 
While  the  people  of  the  port 
Flocked  out  to  see  the  sport, 
With  their  music  playing 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy,  O ! 

"  Now  the  British  Frigate's  name 
Which  for  the  purpose  came 
Of  cooling  Yankee  courage 

Neat  and  handy,  O  ! 
Was  the  Shannon,  Captain  Broke, 
Whose  crew  were  heart  of  oak, 
And  for  fighting  were  confessed 

To  be  the  dandy,  O  ! 

"  The  engagement  scarce  begun 
Ere  they  flinched  from  their  guns, 
Which  at  first  they  thought  of  working 
Neat  and  handy,  O  ! 


136  Ballads  of 

The  bold  Broke  he  waved  his  sword, 
Crying,  '  Now,  my  lads,  on  board, 
And  we  '11  stop  their  playing 

Yankee  Doodle  Dandy,  O  ! ' 

"  They  no  sooner  heard  the  word 
Than  they  quickly  rushed  aboard 
And  hauled  down  the  Yankee  ensign 

Neat  and  handy,  O  ! 
Notwithstanding  all  their  brag, 
Now  the  glorious  British  flag 
At  the  Yankee's  mizzen-peak 

Was  quite  the  dandy,  O  ! 

"  Successful  Broke  to  you, 
And  your  officers  and  crew, 
Who  on  board  the  Shannon  frigate 

Fought  so  handy,  O  ! 
And  may  it  ever  prove 
That  in  fighting  as  in  love 

The  true  British  tar  is  the  dandy,  O  ! 


New  England  History         137 


OLD   IRONSIDES 

fe  OLD  IRONSIDES,"  as  the  Constitution  frigate  was  familiarly 
called,  was  built  at  a  Boston  wharf.  She  sailed  from  Boston 
in  June,  1812,  to  fight  the  Guerriere.  Legitimate  commerce 
was  at  an  end ;  there  were  a  plenty  of  seamen  hungry  for 
a  fight,  and  an  old  New  Englander  is  apt  to  say,  whether 
truly  or  not  I  do  not  know,  that  every  man  of  her  crew, 
when  she  fought  the  Guerriere,  was  a  well-trained  skipper 
who  could  have  "navigated"  the  ship. 

By  the  combination  of  the  new  western  States  with  the 
southern  oligarchies,  General  Jackson  was  chosen  President. 
The  new  dynasty  well  in  the  saddle,  as  a  neat  bit  of  bravado, 
gave  orders  to  break  up  the  New  England  frigate  Constitution. 
She  had  been  built  under  the  older  Adams.  They  had  now 
turned  out  the  younger  Adams,  and  the  plan  for  her  destruc- 
tion was  rather  an  ingenious  insult  to  the  North.  The  ship 
herself  was  not  much  more  than  thirty  years  old  at  the  time. 

The  insult  was  received  with  more  spirit  than  was  expected. 
It  was  perhaps  suggested  by  some  over-officious  person  in 
Jackson's  cabinet.  But  it  roused  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
then  scarcely  more  than  a  boy,  and  he  himself  has  told  how 
he  retired  to  his  attic  room,  in  General  Ward's  old  headquar- 
ters at  Cambridge,  and  wrote  the  verses  which  (t  fired  the 
northern  heart."  The  order  for  the  destruction  of  the  ship 
was  withdrawn,  and  we  still  preserve  her  under  the  shadow 
of  Bunker  Hill  as  the  Athenians  preserved  the  Galley  of 


138  Ballads  of 

Theseus.  Dr.  Holmes  might  well  claim  the  credit  of  saving 
"  Old  Ironsides/'  and  the  poem,  printed  everywhere  in  the 
northern  States,  won  for  him  at  once  his  national  reputation. 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, , 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle's  shout, 
^nd  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  feel  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  1 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 

Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 
And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 


New  England  History         139 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  God  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


The  capture  of  the  Guerriere  was  not  the  last  of  New  Eng- 
land's victories,  nor  the  loss  of  the  Chesapeake  the  last  of  her 
defeats.  But  life  went  on  with  its  chances  and  changes  of 
hope  and  fear.  And  these  ballads  of  what  the  Rhode  Island- 
ers call  the  "  South  country  "  come  next  in  the  history  of  the 
last  century.  Then  comes  the  "  marshalling  in  arms." 


140  Ballads  of 


THE  FUNERAL   OF   OLD  JOHN 
RUDD 

A  SOUTHWEST  wind  on  Matunuck  Beach  brings 

the  seaweed  up  on  the  shore, 
And  then  will  the  farmers'  carts  be  down,  you 

can  often  count  a  score, 
And   see  the  men  in  the  water,  knee-deep   as 

though  they  were  spearing  eels, 
While  the  seaweed  carts  stand  just  by  the  edge 

with  kelp  all  over  the  wheels. 
The  carts  come  down  from  the  whole  Backside 

to  gather  their  dripping  load, 
And  from  upland  farms  away  in  the  woods,  and 

from  all  the  Kingston  Road, 
And  even  from  Carolina,  nine  miles  and  more 

away 
Where  they  hitch  the  oxen  up  to  the  carts  before 

the  gray  dawn  o'  the  day. 

So  one  night  Ben  Segar's  team  was  mounting  the 

rise  of  Halfway  Hill ; 
It  was  almost  light,  for  the  stars  were  bright  and 

the  moon  shone  soft  and  still ; 


New  England  History         141 

And  Ben  could  see  the  Block  Island  lights  as  he 
mounted  the  little  crest, 

With  Judith  flashing  away  in  the  east,  and  Mon- 
tauk  off  in  the  west. 

But  on  reaching  the  flat  where  the  road  is  bad, 
(for  the  sand  lies  heavy  and  deep), 

Uncle  Ben  lay  down  on  the  seat  for  a  bit  and 
soon  fell  half  asleep, 

And  left  his  team  to  get  on  by  themselves  with- 
out the  guide  of  the  goad, 

The  oxen  jogging  one  step  at  a  time  as  they 
lurched  along  the  road. 


'T  is  a  weary  ride,  for  the  houses  are  few  and  far 

between, 
And  there  's  hardly  a  sound  to  be  heard  for  miles 

or  a  sign  of  life  to  be  seen, 
Save  now  and  then  the  piercing  cry  of  a  cock  that 

has  waked  and  crowed, 
Or  the  sudden  dash  of  a  woodchuck  as  he  scuttles 

across  the  road. 
And  so  for  a  time  Ben  nodded  along,  and  then 

with  a  start  he  woke 
And  lifted  his  head  and  snuffed  the  air,  for  he 

smelt  the  smell  of  smoke. 


142  Ballads  of 

Off  here  to  the  left  lived  Old  John  Rudd,  the 

Hermit  as  people  said, 
He  had  lived  by  himself  for  twenty  years  since 

old  man  Rudd  was  dead. 

An  unfriendly  man  was  the  hermit.     He  'd  lived 

so  long  alone 
That  his  heart  was  about  as  soft  and  kind  as  a 

Green  Hill  cobblestone. 
He  had  read  no  book  but  the  Bible  since  ever 

he'd  learned  to  read, 
And  out  of  the  texts  he'd  made  for  himself  a 

gloomy  and  grievous  creed. 
And  he  'd  go  to  Cornelia's  to  meeting,  and  after 

he  'd  sat  a  spell 
He  'd  up  and  preach  the  Good  Tidings  of  Death, 

Damnation  and  Hell. 

So  the  children  ran  when  they  saw  him,  and  he 

frowned  when  he  saw  a  child. 
For  what  was  a  child  but  the  image  of  Christ 

with  original  sin  defiled  ? 
And  he  lived  apart  in  his  house  in  the  woods  as 

lonely  as  could  be, 
And  nobody  loved  him  in  all  this  world  and  he 

loved  nobody. 


New  England  History         143 

As  he  smelt  the  smoke  Ben  left  his  team  and 

ran  off  into  the  wood, 
Along  the  cart  track  over  the  hill  to  where  John 

Rudd's  house  had  stood. 
But  when  he  reached  the  clearing,  in  place  of  the 

house,  he  found 
Charred  beams  and  glowing  embers  spread  over 

the  blackened  ground. 
And  there  stood   Csesar  the  negro,  who  lived  in 

the  hills  to  the  East, 
The  hermit's  nearest  neighbour  though  a  mile 

away  at  least. 

"  Yer  Ve  come  too  late,"  said  Uncle  Ben,  "  we  Ve 

both  on  us  come  too  late ; 
We  'd  a  had  to  been  here  hours  ago  to  a  saved 

John  Rudd  from  his  fate." 
He  pointed  down  and  there  stretched  out  from 

the  roof  a-clutching  the  sand 
Was  the  charred  and  blackened  remnant  of  what 

had  been  John  Rudd's  hand. 

The  two  men  moved  no  nearer ;  they  looked,  and 

stood  apart, 
The  ashes  of  awe  in  their  faces  and  the  dread  of 

death  at  the  heart. 


144  Ballads  of 

For  a  moment  then  there  was  silence :  till  Ben 

spoke  up  and  said 
"  I  guess  the  ole  man  was  smothered  to  death 

afore  he  could  leave  his  bed. 
Or  p'raps  he  was  struck  by  the  fall  of  the  roof 

at  the  door  he  was  crawlin'  fur, 
He  was  awful  bad  with  the  rheumatiz'.  and  at 

times  couldn't  hardly  stir." 


Then  Caesar  said  :  "  I  see  him  comin'  home  las' 

Sat'day  night. 
He  was  snarlin'  and  talkin'  dreadful,  as  he  did 

when  things  were  n't  right. 
He  said  this  earth  was  so  wicked,  the  Lord  did  n't 

love  it  no  more, 
An'  he  said  the  Lord  had  hidden  His  face  as  it 

never  was  hidden  before. 
But  he  said  the  days  was  comin',  the  days  was 

close  at  hand 
When  the  Lord  would  smite  the  evil  through 

the  len'th  and  breadth  of  the  land. 
For  he  said  we  was  judged :  we  was  all  on  us 

weighed  and  foun'  wantin'  an'  all, 
An'  there  was  n't  a  spot  on  the  whole  wide  world 

where  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  would  n't  fall. 


New  England  History         145 

For  Christ  would  come  with  his  angels  in  chay- 

yuts  of  fire  an'  of  flame 
An'  the  blazin'  sword  of  his  conquerin'  Word,  an' 

the  dread  of  his  awful  Name 
An'  he  'd  smite  the  earth  an'  destroy  it :  the  sea, 

an'  the  sand,  an'  the  sod, 
An'  it 's  flame  should  go  up  forever  amen,  for  the 

greater  glory  of  God." 
And  Caesar  paused  and  showed  his  teeth  and  his 

eyeballs  glistened  white, 
And  he  thought  of  these  future  horrors  with  holy 

and  high  delight. 

"  Well  the  flamin'  chayyut  's  come  for  him,    said 

Ben,  "  and  there 's  the  proof. 
But  now  I  guess  we'm  best  to  go  for  some  help 

to  raise  that  roof. 
'T  won't  do  John  Rudd  no  good.     He  don't  want 

help  no  more. 
But  I  '11  rouse  the  folks  along  the  road  —  I  was 

goin'  down  t'  the  shore." 
So  Ben  went  back  to  his  oxen  and  Cgesar  went 

on  his  way, 
And  John  Rudd's  pyre  was  left  to  itself  in  the 

glow  of  the  newborn  day. 


10 


146  Ballads  of 

And  the  laurel  was  pink  on  the  hillside,  and  its 

dark  leaves  gleamed  in  the  dew, 
The  morning  breeze  moved  through  the  trees  and 

the  grey  sky  warmed  to  blue, 
The  birds  began  to  twitter  as  the  day  stole  over 

the  hill, 
The  bees  buzzed  round  o'er  the  blackened  ground 

as  they  followed  their  wandering  will, 
And  the  birds  and  the  bees  and  the  flowers  and 

the  trees  and  the  morning  glow  in  the  air 
Were  a  living  proof  by  the  blackened  roof,  that 

the  Glory  of  God  was  there. 
But  the  Hermit  lay  all  quiet  after  his  last  fierce 

strife 
As  blind  and  deaf  to  the  flowers  and  the  birds  as 

he  ever  had  been  in  life. 
Yet  off  in  the  dawn  of  the  perfect  day  which 

began  with  such  fiery  birth, 
John  Rudd  had  found  the  Glory  of  God  which 

he  missed  in  his  night  on  this  earth. 


New  England  History         147 


THE  BREACH  BY  POINT  JUDITH 
POINT 

THE  wind  blows  hard  on  Point  Judith   Point 

and  the  sea 's  all  black  and  white, 
No  wind  that  has  blown  for  fifty  years  has  blown 

like  the  wind  to-night. 
Along  to  the  west  the  shore  curves  round  and  as 

far  as  the  eye  can  reach 
The  sea  is  rolling  and  breaking  high  for  a  half 

a  mile  from  the  beach. 
The  western  sky  is  a  cold  red  streak  beneath  the 

cloudbank's  frown, 
Red  with  the  gold  of  the  sun,  but  cold  in  the 

place  where  the  sun  went  down. 

Along  by  the  Saltpond  Breach  is  the  place  where 
the  surf  has  the  sport  most  rare, 

For  the  sea  runs  in  and  the  pond  runs  out,  and 
the  waves  crash  high  in  the  air. 

The  breakers  reach  far  into  the  Breach  in  a  roll- 
ing snowwhite  wedge, 


148  Ballads  of 

And  they  gnaw  the  sand  on  either  hand  as  they 

eat  up  the  sandy  ledge. 
The  breakers  reach  far  into  the  Breach  with  a 

lashing  rumble  and  roar, 
And  the  white  foam  flecks  the  half-ribbed  wrecks 

that  lie  far  up  on  the  shore, 
If  half-tide  runs  so  near  the  dunes,  high  tide  will 

wash  them  o'er. 


Up  from  the  shore  of  Meadow  Point  where  the 

two  Saltponds  divide, 
Is  Long  John    Tucker's   farmhouse,   with  the 

barns  on  either  side. 
Long  John  leans  over  the  barnyard  gate  as  the 

cows  come  home.     "  I  fear 
To-night  will  be  the  worst  night  at  sea  there's 

been  for  many  a  year." 
The  cattle  are  milked,  the  barnyard  closed,  the 

chickens  are  gathered  and  fed, 
And  the  farmer's  folks  take  supper  and  soon  be- 
take themselves  to  bed. 
They  sleep  full  sound  nor  trouble  their  sleep  with 

thought  of  the  ships  at  sea, 
And  the  breaker's  roar  comes  up  from  the  shore 

a-grumbling  ceaselessly. 


New  England  History         149 

The  little  room  in  the  farmhouse  ell,  over  the 

kitchen  door, 
Is  the  room  of  the  farmer's  hired  girl,  the  room 

of  Mary  More. 
Mary  More,  the  girl  that  you  see  when  you  pass 

the  house  as  you  go 
To  the  Kingfisher  fishing-gang's  house  on  the 

bluff  a  half  a  mile  below. 
An  Irish  girl  with  a  fresh,  frank  face,  a  cheerful, 

pleasant  sight,  — 
But  God  in  Heaven  !  the  look  on  the  face  of 

Mary  More  this  night, 
As  she  looks  from  her  window  and  tries  to  pierce 

the  dark  and  the  wind  and  the  gloom, 
Leaning  far  out  on  the  window  ledge  in  her  poor 

little  garret  room, 
Poor  Mary,  —  no  father  nor  mother,  —  her  lover 

away  at  sea, 
Homeward  bound  perhaps,  in  a  gale  the  worst 

that  a  gale  can  be. 


All  tired  out  with  watching  at  last  Mary  sinks  to 

her  bed 
To  a  sleep  that  is  worse  than  waking,  for  the 

dreams  that  dance  through  her  head, 


150  Ballads  of 

Dreams  of  wrecks  and  drowning  men  and  storms 

and  ships  at  sea, 
With  breakers  groaning  and  sounds  of  moaning 

as  though  of  the  grim  Banshee. 
Storms   and  wrecks   and   drowning   men   chase 

through  her  feverish  dream 
Till  she  wakes  with  a  start,  her  hand  on  her  heart, 

at  the  fearful  sound  of  a  scream. 
At  a  drowning  scream  that  chills  her  heart,  Mary 

wakes  up  from  sleep, 
And  sick  with  dread  she  springs  from  her  bed  to 

look  out  at  the  noise  of  the  deep. 
But  except  for  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  the 

surf  the  farmhouse  stands  all  still, 
Except  for  the  sound  of  the  surf  and  the  wind,  — 

silent,  lonely,  chill. 
And  out  of  the  window  Mary  leans  and  to  pierce 

the  night  she  tries  ; 
A  night  so  black  that  it  almost  seems  less  black 

when  you  close  your  eyes. 


Crazed  with  horror  and  sick  with  dread,  Mary 

runs  to  the  door, 
Slips  down  the  stair  and  into  the  air,  and  makes 

for  the  wild  seashore. 


New  England  History         151 

She 's  run  through  the  meadow  and  crossed  the 

ford,  where  the  carts  bring  up  marsh-hay, 
She 's  run  by  the  side  of  the  pond  where  the  tide 

is  ankle-deep  over  the  way, 
She 's  thrown  herself  into  the  swift-running  gut 

that 's  swept  her  on  to  the  bar, 
And  now  she  stands  on  the  wet  sea  sands  where 

the  wrecks  and  the  seabirds  are, 
She  strains  her  eyes  at  the  darkness  and  out  at 

the  storm  looks  she, 
But  nothing 's  in  sight  save  the  lone  sand  beach 

and  the  clouds  and  the  white,  white  sea. 
Nothing  in  sight  save  the  sea  so  white  and  the 

clouds  and  the  lone  sand  beach, 
And  nothing  to  hear  but  the  growling  drear  of 

the  surf  and  the  roaring  Breach. 
She's  alone  with  the  wrecks  and  the   seabirds, 

alone  with  her  fear  and  her  fears 
While  the  drowning  scream   she  heard  in  her 

dream  still  rings  and  rings  in  her  ears. 


That  night  Pawawget  changed  its  shape,  for  the 

sand  filled  up  the  Breach, 
And  the  water  opened  another  way  by  the  cabin 

of  old  Ned  Teach, 


152  Ballads  of 

Where  the  cart  track  runs  between  the  dunes,  in 

the  path  that  was  made  by  the  sea 
Just   six   and  sixty  years   ago,  in   the  gale   of 

Twenty-three. 
And  the  place  on  the  beach  where  Mary  stood 

and  looked  for  her  lover  that  night 
Was  all  cut  off  by  the  water  at  first,  and  then 

was  buried  from  sight. 
And  over  the  place  where  Mary  had  stood  with 

her  shawl  round  shoulders  and  head 
The   breakers   roared  their  stormy  fugue  as  a 

Wedding  March  for  the  Dead. 


And  the  Sally  and  Jane  went  ashore  that  night, 

as  had  happened  in  Mary's  dream, 
And  maybe  the  scream  that  Mary  had  heard  was 

somebody's  drowning  scream. 
But  neither  among  the  saved  nor  the  drowned, 

and  neither  on  sea  nor  on  shore, 
Was  the  man  whom  Mary  had  seen  in  her  dream, 

the  lover  of  Mary  More. 
For  the  lover  that  Mary  had  looked  for  on  the 

stormy  night  she  was  drowned 
Had  never  shipped  in  the  Sally  and  Jane  from 

Havana  homeward  bound. 


New  England  History         153 

He  had  shipped  for  a  longer  and  quicker  voyage, 
bound  for  God  knows  where,  — 

Stabbed  and  killed  in  Havana  for  courting  a  bull- 
fighter's mistress  there. 


154  Ballads  of 


COTTON 

SOON  as  the  country  rolls  up  from  the  plain 
The  hills  remind  me  of  the  hills  of  Maine. 
The  same  dark  pines  around  to  frown  o'er  all,  — 
The   same    rank    growth    where'er    the   forests 

fall,  - 
The  same  green  slopes,  the  same  black  swamps 

below, 

Where  not  the  lightest  foot,  nor  lightest  boat- 
men go. 


That  likeness  hardly  holds,  the  web  foot  cypress 

here 

Gives  shade  we  borrow  from  the  cedar  there ; 
And  when  these  hills  assume  their  blaze  of  red 
Where  the  long  crops  whole  acres  have  o'er- 

spread, 

The  scene  suggests  no  metaphor  at  all, 
But  of  long  ivy  on  a  bright  brick  wall, 


New  England  History         155 

Or  green  embroidery  on  a  brick  dust  dress, 
Or  of  green  war  paint  on  an  Indian's  face. 


And  here  the  valley  of  dull  Congaree 
As  unlike  dear  Penobscot  seems  to  me 
As  the  proud  accents  of  that  manly  name 
To  the  soft  slipshod  of  the  southern  stream  1 
See  !  rows  of  cotton  stretch  across  the  plain, 
Nature's  curst  present  to  her  brother  man ! 

God  to  the  Saxon  such  a  mission  gave, 
To  light  the  blinded  and  to  free  the  slave ! 
And  the  poor  Saxon,  Cotton  blinded  stands, 
Feet  Cotton  tangled,  Cotton  bound  his  hand  ! 
Cotton !  from  seed  to  web  a  twist  of  groans  and 

fears ! 
Wrought  with  men's  rights,  and  watered  with 

their  tears, 

From  here  to  Manchester  its  tale  the  same  ! 
Bartered  with  blood,  and  saturate  with  shame ! 
Till  spinner,  weaver,  slave,  each  curse  its  name ! 

Cotton  !  the  curse,  the  glory  of  our  time, 
Type  of  its  wealth,  its   shame,   its  power,   its 
crime ! 


156   Ballads  of  New  England  History 

Why  in  the  Iron  times  did  none  reveal 
Presage  of  future  times,  their  woe  ?  their  weal  ? 
Why  does  not  ancient  lore,  not  Hebrew  page 
Not  all  the  rhapsodies  of  Delphic  rage, 
Foretell  the  fifth,  the  proud,  mean  Cotton  Age ! 

CONGABEE  RIVEB,  May  20,  1848 


THE   CIVIL  WAR 


THE   CIVIL  WAR 

THE  poetical  literature  of  the  Civil  War  would  make  a 
volume  in  itself.  Professor  Child,  the  great  authority  on 
English  ballads,  gave  himself  the  duty  of  providing  war  songs 
for  the  army.  He  has  printed  them  in  a  valuable  pamphlet. 

The  most  celebrated  of  all  was  written,  as  I  suppose,  by 
Henry  Howard  Brownell,  whom  Dr.  Holmes  has  called  "  our 
Battle  Laureate."  It  was  first  known  to  literary  ears,  I  think, 
when  Fletcher  Webster's  Regiment  of  Massachusetts  Volun- 
teers marched  up  State  Street,  in  1862,  and  the  men  were 
singing  this  ode.  Mrs.  Howe's  celebrated  version  followed 
not  long  after.  The  following  copy  is  from  the  original 
broadside.  Mr.  Brownell  afterwards  made  the  changes  so 
well  known. 

JOHN   BROWN'S  body  lies  a  mouldering  in  the 

grave ! 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a  mouldering  in  the 

grave ! 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a  mouldering  in  the 

grave: 

His  soul 's  marching  on ! 

Glory  Hatty  Hallelujah ! 
Glory  Hally  Hallelujah  ! 
Glory  HaUy  Hallelujah ! 
His  soul 's  marching  on  I 


160  Ballads  of 

He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  our 

Lord, 
He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  our 

Lord, 
He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  our 

Lord. 

His  soul 's  marching  on ! 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is   strapped  upon  his 

back 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his 

back 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his 

back. 

His  soul 's  marching  on  ! 

His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way,  — 
His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way,  — 
His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way,  — 
They  go  marching  on. 

They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  tree  1 
They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  tree ! 
They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  tree  ! 
As  they  march  along. 


New  England  History         161 

Now,  three  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union ! 

Now,  three  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union ! 

Now,  three  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union ! 

As  we  are  marching  on. 

All  the  "  Four  Makers  "  were  at  their  very  best  in  the 
War,  and  week  by  week,  almost,  contributed  to  its  literature. 
Here  are  some  other  verses,  more  ephemeral. 

OLD  FANEUIL  HALL 

COME,  soldiers,  join  a  Yankee  song, 
And  cheer  us,  as  we  march  along, 
With  Yankee  voices,  full  and  strong,  — 

Join  in  chorus  all ; 
Our  Yankee  notions  here  we  bring, 
Our  Yankee  chorus  here  we  sing, 
To  make  the  Dixie  forest  ring 

With  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

When  first  our  fathers  made  us  free, 
When  old  King  George  first  taxed  the  tea, 
They  swore  they  would  not  bend  the  knee, 

But  armed  them  one  and  all ! 
In  days  like  those  the  chosen  spot 
To  keep  the  hissing  water  hot, 
To  steep  the  tea  leaves  in  the  pot, 

Was  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 
11 


162  Ballads  of 

So  when,  to  steal  our  tea  and  toast, 
At  Sumter  first  the  rebel  host 
Prepared  to  march  along  the  coast, 

At  Jeff  Davis' caU, 
He  stood  on  Sumter's  tattered  flag, 
To  cheer  them  with  the  game  of  brag, 
And  bade  them  fly  his  Rebel  Rag 

On  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

But  war 's  a  game  that  two  can  play  ; 
They  waked  us  up  that  very  day, 
And  bade  the  Yankees  come  away 

Down  South,  at  Abram's  call  1 
And  so  I  learned  my  facings  right, 
And  so  I  packed  my  knapsack  tight, 
And  then  I  spent  the  parting  night 

In  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

And  on  that  day  which  draws  so  nigh, 
When  rebel  ranks  our  steel  shall  try,  — 
When  sounds  at  last  the  closing  cry 

"  Charge  bayonets,  all !  " 
The  Yankee  shouts  from  far  and  near, 
Which  broken  ranks  in  flying  hear, 
Shall  be  a  rousing  Northern  cheer 

From  OLD  FANEUIL  HALL  ! 

APRIL  19,  1861 


New  England  History         163 


TAKE  THE  LOAN 

COME,  freemen  of  the  land, 
Come  meet  the  great  demand, 
True  heart  and  open  hand,  — 

Take  the  loan  1 

For  the  hopes  the  prophets  saw, 
For  the  swords  your  brothers  draw, 
For  liberty  and  law, 

Take  the  loan  ! 

Ye  ladies  of  the  land, 

As  ye  love  the  gallant  band 

Who  have  drawn  a  soldier's  brand, 

Take  the  loan ! 

Who  would  bring  them  what  she  could, 
Who  would  give  the  soldier  food, 
Who  would  staunch  her  brothers'  blood, 

Take  the  loan ! 

All  who  saw  our  hosts  pass  by, 
All  who  joined  the  parting  cry, 
When  we  bade  them  do  or  die, 
Take  the  loan ! 


164  Ballads  of  New  England  History 

As  ye  wished  their  triumph  then, 
As  ye  hope  to  meet  again, 
And  to  meet  their  gaze  like  men, 
Take  the  loan ! 


Who  would  press  the  great  appeal 
Of  our  ranks  of  serried  steel, 
Put  your  shoulders  to  the  wheel, 

Take  the  loan ! 

That  our  prayers  in  truth  may  rise, 
Which  we  press  with  streaming  eyes 
On  the  Lord  of  earth  and  skies, 

Take  the  loan ! 

MAY,  1861  1 

1  Written  when  people  had  to  be  persuaded  as  patriots  to  subscribe 
for  a  7. 30  loan !  Those  who  did  so  are  to-day's  millionaires.  (October, 
1903.) 


AFTERWARD 


THE   GREAT   HARVEST  YEAR 

LET  us  hope  that  we  shall  have  to  write  no  more  War 
Ballads.  What  was  it  Allston  said,  "  No  more  battle  pieces  "  ? 
As  early  as  1878  we  came  to  what  was  then  called  "the  Great 
Harvest  Year"  to  which  New  England  contributed  her  apples 
and  ice  and  codfish  and  cheese.  From  the  ballad  of  "  The 
Great  Harvest  Year/'  therefore,  I  copy  what  I  may  claim  as 
the  New  England  verses. 

THE   GREAT  HARVEST  YEAR1 

THE  night  the  century  ebbed  out,  all  worn  with 
work  and  sin, 

The  night  a  twentieth  century,  all  fresh  with 
hope,  came  in, 

The  children  watched,  the  evening  long,  the  mid- 
night clock  to  see, 

And  to  wish  to  one  another  "  A  Happy  Cen- 
tury ! " 

They  climbed  upon  my  knee,  and  they  tumbled 
on  the  floor ; 

And  Bob  and  Nell  came  begging  me  for  stories 
of  the  War. 

1  The  harvest  of  the  year  1878  was  by  far  the  largest  harvest  which 
had  ever  ripened  in  America.  The  exports  of  food  were  much  greater 
than  ever  before.  They  have  been  much  larger  since. 


1 68  Ballads  of 

But  I  told  Nell  that  I  would  tell  no  tales  but 

tales  of  peace,  — 
God  grant  that  for  a  hundred  years  the  tales  of 

war  might  cease ! 
I  told  them  I  would  tell  them  of  the  blessed 

Harvest  Store, 
Of  the  year  in  which  God  fed  men  as  they  ne'er 

were  fed  before ; 
For  till  that  year  of  matchless  cheer,  since  suns  or 

worlds  were  made, 
Never  sent  land  to  other  lands  such  gift  of  Daily 

Bread ! 


THE  WAR  was  done,  and  men  began  to  live  in 

peaceful  ways, 
For  thirteen  years  of  hopes  and  fears,  dark  nights 

and  joyful  days. 
If  wealth  would  slip,  if  wit  would  trip,  and  neither 

would  avail, 
"  Lo !  the  seed-time  and  the  harvest,"  saith  the 

Lord,  "  shall  never  fail." 
And  to  all  change  of  ups  and  downs,  to  every  hope 

and  fear, 
To  men's  amaze  came  round  the  days   of  the 

Great  Harvest  Year, 


New  England  History          169 

When  God's  command  bade  all  the  land  join 

heart  and  soul  and  mind, 
And  health  and  wealth,  and  hand  and  land,  for 

feeding  half  mankind. 


The  boys  and  girls  the  orchards  thronged  in  those 

October  days 
Where  the  golden  sun  shone  hotly  down  athwart 

the  purple  haze. 

It  warmed  the  piles  of  ruddy  fruit  which  lay  be- 
neath the  trees, 
From  which  the  apples,  red  and  gold,  fell  down 

with  every  breeze. 
The  smallest  boy  would  creep  along  to  clasp  the 

farthest  bough, 
And  throw  the  highest  pippin  to  some  favored 

girl  below. 
The  sound  hard  fruit  with  care  we  chose,  we 

wiped  them  clean  and  dry, 
While  in  the  refuse  heaps,  unused,  we  let  the 

others  lie. 
For  pigs  and  cows  and  oxen  those;    for  other 

lands  were  these, 
And  only  what  was  hard  and  sound  should  sail 

across  the  seas. 


170  Ballads  of 

Then,  as  the  sun  went  down  too  soon,  we  piled 

the  open  crates, 
And  dragged  them  full  where  cellar  cool  threw 

wide  its  waiting  gates, 
So  that  the  air  which  circled  there  was  cold,  but 

not  too  cold, 
To  keep  for  Eastern  rivalry  our  Western  fruit  of 

gold. 
And  as  old  Evans  thoughtful  stood,  and  watched 

the  boys  that  day, 
I  stood  so  near  that  I  could  hear  the  grim  old 

Shaker  say, 
"Shame  on  our  Yankee  orchards,  if  the  fruit 

should  not  be  good, 
The  year  the  land  at  God's  command  sends  half 

the  world  its  food ! " 


A  northeast  gale,  with  snow  and  hail,  bore  down 

upon  the  sea ; 
With  heavy  rolls,  beneath  bare  poles,  we  drifted 

to  the  lee. 
When  morning   broke,  the  skipper  spoke,  and 

never  sailor  shirked, 
But  with  a  will,  though  cold  and  chill,  from  morn 

to  night  we  worked. 


New  England  History         171 

Off  in  the  spray  the  livelong  day  our  spinning 

lines  we  threw, 
And  on  each  hook  a  struggling  fish  back  to  the 

deck  we  drew. 
I  know  I  looked  to  windward  once,  but  the  old 

man  scowled,  and  said, 
"  Let  no  man  flinch,  nor  give  an  inch,  before  his 

stent  is  made. 
We  Ve  nothing  for  it,  shipmates,  but  to  heave  the 

lines  and  pull, 
Till  each  man's  share  has  made  the  fare,  and  every 

cask  is  full. 
This  is  no  year  for  half  a  fare,  for  God  this  year 

decreed 
That  the  forty  States  their  hungry  mates  in  all 

the  lands  shaU  feed." 


While  fields  were  bright  with  summer  light,  and 

heaven  was  all  ablaze, 
O'er  the  broad  sunny  pastures  I  saw  the  cattle 

graze. 
At  early  day  they  take  their  way,  when  cheerful 

morning  warns, 
And  slowly  leave  the  shelter  of  the  hospitable 

barns. 


172  Ballads  of 

The  widow's  son  drew  all  the  milk  which  the 

crowded  bag  would  yield, 
And  sent  his  pretty  Durham  to  her  breakfast  in 

the  field. 
One  portion  then  for  the  children's  bowls  the 

urchin  set  away, 
One  part  he  set  for  cream  for  the  next  churning- 

day; 
But  there  was  left  enough  for  one  little  can 

beside, 
And  with  this  the  thrifty  shaver  to  the  great 

cheese  factory  hied. 

His  milk  was  measured  with  the  rest,  and  poured 

into  the  stream, 
And  as  he  turned  away  he  met  Van  Antwerp's 

stately  team, 
Which  bore  a  hundred  gallons  from  the  milking 

of  that  day, 
And  this  was  poured  to  swell  the  hoard  fed  by 

that  milky  way. 

The  snowy  curd  is  fitly  stirred ;  the  cruel  presses 

squeeze 
Until  the  last  weak  drop  has  passed,  and  lo,  the 

solid  cheese  1 


New  England  History         173 

In  Yorkshire  mill,  on  Snowdon's  hill,  men  eat  it 

with  their  bread, 
Nor  think  nor  ask  of  the  distant  task  of  the  boy 

by  whom  they  're  fed. 
But  when  autumn's  done  the  widow's  son  stands 

at  Van  Antwerp's  side, 
And  takes  in  his  hand  his  dividend  paid  for  the 

milky  tide. 

So  South  and  North  the  food  send  forth  to  meet 
the  nation's  need ; 

So  black  and  white,  with  main  and  might,  the 
hungry  peoples  feed. 

Since  God  bade  man  subdue  the  earth,  and  har- 
vest-time began, 

Never  in  any  land  has  earth  been  so  subdued  by 
man.  

PRAISE  God  for  wheat,  so  white  and  sweet  of 
which  to  make  our  bread ! 

Praise  God  for  yellow  corn,  with  which  his  wait- 
ing world  is  fed ! 

Praise  God  for  fish  and  flesh  and  fowl,  he  gave 
to  man  for  food ! 

Praise  God  for  every  creature  which  He  made,  and 
called  it  good ! 


174  Ballads  of 

Praise  God  for  winter's  store  of  ice  1    Praise  God 

for  summer's  heat  I 
Praise  God  for  fruit-tree  bearing  seed  ;  "  to  you 

it  is  for  meat "  ! 
Praise  God  for  all  the  bounty  by  which  the  world 

is  fed ! 
Praise  God  His  children  all,  to  whom  He  gives 

their  daily  bread!1 

1  Mr.  Lang  did  me  the  honor  to  set  these  eight  lines  to  music  ;  and 
it  is  our  Thanksgiving  Hymn  annually  at  the  South  Congregational 
Church. 


New  England  History         175 


MANILA  BAY 

FROM  keel  to  fighting  top,  I  love 

Our  Asiatic  fleet, 
I  love  our  officers  and  crews 

Who  'd  rather  fight  than  eat. 
I  love  the  breakfast  ordered  up 

When  enemies  ran  short, 
But  most  I  love  our  chaplain 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port. 

Now,  a  naval  chaplain  cannot  charge 

As  chaplains  can  on  land, 
With  his  Bible  in  his  pocket, 

His  revolver  in  his  hand, 
He  must  wait  and  help  the  wounded 

No  danger  must  he  court ; 
So  our  chaplain  helped  the  wounded 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port. 

Beneath  his  red  and  yellow, 
At  bay  the  Spaniard  stood 

Till  the  yellow  rose  in  fire 

And  the  crimson  sank  in  blood. 


176  Ballads  of 

And  till  the  last  fouled  rifle 

Sped  its  impotent  retort, 
Our  chaplain  watched  the  Spaniard 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port. 

Then  here 's  our  admiral  on  the  bridge 

Above  the  bursting  shell ; 
And  here 's  our  sailors  who  went  in 

For  victory  or  hell, 
And  here  's  the  ships  and  here 's  the  guns, 

That  silenced  fleet  and  fort ; 
But  don't  forget  our  chaplain 

With  his  head  out  of  the  port. 

MAY  1, 1898 


New  England  History         177 


NEW  ENGLAND  TO  A  TRUANT 
LOVER 

THE  grey  November  stream  is  still ; 

The  russet  woods  you  used  to  know 
Await  upon  their  tranquil  hill 

The  silent  promise  of  the  snow ; 
And  you  whose  younger  pulses  beat 

At  my  shy  favors,  dear  and  few, 
Have  come  your  earlier  loves  to  meet,  — 

Am  I  not  still  enough  for  you  ? 


Far  in  the  country  of  the  sun, 

Where  never  winter  tempest  blows, 

Quicker  your  blood  has  learned  to  run 
In  airs  of  never-fading  rose ; 

The  gardens  of  your  newer  love 

Beyond  their  walls  of  mountain  blue 

Lie  fair  her  magic  seas  above,  — 

But  am  not  I  enough  for  you  ? 
12 


' 


178  Ballads  of 

Not  one  alone,  nor  two  nor  three, 

But  many  a  man,  and  not  in  vain, 
Content  with  hardness  and  with  me, 

Has  made  his  loss  his  endless  gain ; 
Has  better  loved  one  ardent  day 

Close  to  my  heart  lived  madly  through 
Than  sluggish  ages  far  away,  — 

Is  not  that  day  enough  for  you  ? 

I  gave  you  life  and  gave  you  breath  ; 

I  spun  the  thread  you  waste  to-day. 
Why  grudge  a  year  or  two  to  death 

If  what  I  gave  I  take  away  ? 
Choose  if  you  will  the  palm  and  vine, 

Leave  me  for  all  the  South  can  do ; 
Yet  I  am  yours  and  you  are  mine, 

And  is  not  that  enough  for  you  ? 


New  England  History         179 


PHILLIPS   BROOKS 

ONCE  when  my  soul  was  dull   and  closed  and 

grim 

And  I  was  tired  of  stern  Life's  endless  fray, 
I  met  that  man  who  died  the  other  day, 
And  as  he  spoke,  I  felt  through  every  limb 
He  was  my  master.     From  the  horizon  dim 
Bidding  me  come,  and  pointing  out  the  way, 
His  spirit  called :  my  spirit  must  obey. 
You  must  be  noble  while  you  are  with  him. 
As  some  poor  wretch  from  fortune's  lowest  lurch, 
Limping  with  downcast  eyes  through  scornful 

crowds, 

Watching  the  gutter  water  ripple  by, 
Comes  suddenly  upon  a  stately  church 

With  lofty  spire  pointing  toward  the  clouds, 
And  finds  that  he  is  gazing  at  the  sky. 

R.  B.  H. 


i8o  Ballads  of 


FRANCIS   PARKMAN 

WITH  youth's  blue  sky  and  charming  sunlight 

blest 

And  flushed  with  hope,  he  set  himself  to  trace 
The  fading  footprints  of  a  banished  race, 

Unmindful  of  the  storm-clouds  in  the  west. 

In  silent  pain  and  torments  unconfessed, 
Determination  written  on  his  face, 
He  struggled  on,  nor  faltered  in  his  pace 

Until  his  work  was  done  and  he  could  rest. 

He  was  no  frightened  paleface  stumbling  through 
An   unknown    forest  wandering    round    and 

round. 

Like  his  own  Indians,  with  instinct  fine, 
He   knew  his   trail,  though   none   saw  how  he 

knew ; 
Reckoned  his  time  and  reached  his  camping 

ground 
Just  as  the  first  white  stars  began  to  shine. 

R.  B.  H. 


New  England  History         181 


THE   STARS 

I  LAY  at  my  ease  in  my  little  boat, 
Fast  moored  to  the  shore  of  the  pond, 

And  looked  up  through  the  trees  that  swayed  in 

the  breeze 
At  God's  own  sky  beyond. 

And  I  thought  of  the  want  and  the  sin  in  the 
world, 

And  the  pain  and  the  grief  they  bring, 
And  I  marvelled  at  God  for  spreading  abroad 

Such  sorrow  and  suffering. 

Evening  came  creeping  over  the  earth, 

And  the  sky  grew  dim  and  gray 
And  faded  from  sight ;  and  I  grumbled  at  Night 

For  stealing  my  sky  away. 

Then  out  of  the  dark  just  the  speck  of  a  face 
Peeped  forth  from  its  window  bars  ; 

And  I  laughed  to  see  it  smile  at  me : 
I  had  not  thought  of  the  stars  ! 


182   Ballads  of  New  England  History- 
There  are  millions  of  loving  thoughts  and  deeds 

All  ripe  for  awakening, 

That  never  would  start  from  the  world's  cold 
heart 

But  for  sorrow  and  suffering. 

Yes,  the  blackening  night  is  sombre  and  cold, 

And  the  day  was  warm  and  fine ; 
And  yet  if  the  day  never  faded  away 

The  stars  would  never  shine. 

R.  B.  H.,  1892 


Edward  Everett  ffale's  Works 


A  new  uniform  collected  edition  of  the  principal  books  of  the 
author  of  "The  Man  Without  a  Country."  10  vols.  With 
frontispiece.  i2mo.  Cloth,  gilt  top.  Per  volume,  $1.50.] 

Printed  in  clear  and  beautiful  type,  issued  under  the  supervision  of 
the  author,  and  including  revision  and  new  matter. 

I.  THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY,   AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

The  Man  Without  a  Country.  Round  the  "World  in  a  Hack. 

My  Double,  and  How  He  Undid  Did  He  Take  the  Prince  to  Ride  ? 

Me.  The  Children  of  the  Public. 

The    Rag-Man  and  the    Rag-  The  Skeleton  in  the  Closet. 

Woman.  The  Modern  Psyche. 

His  Level  Best.  The  Happy  Island. 

II.  IN  His  NAME,  AND  CHRISTMAS  STORIES. 

In  His  Name.  They  Saw  a  Great  Light. 

Christmas  Waits  in  Boston.        Hands  Off. 

Daily  Bread.  Cromwell's  Statue. 

III.  TEN  TIMES  ONE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

Ten  Times  One  is  Ten.  Hepzibah's  Turkeys. 

Neither  Scrip  nor  Money.  Our  New  Crusade. 

Stand  and  Wait. 

IV.  THE  BRICK  MOON,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

The  Brick  Moon.  99  Newbury  Street. 

Crusoe  in  New  York,  The  Survivor's  Story. 

The  Lost  Palace.  Thanksgiving  at  the  Polls. 

Ideals.  One  Cent. 
Bread  on  the  Waters. 

V.  PHILIP  NOLAN'S  FRIENDS. 

VI.  A  NEW  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD,  ETC. 

VII.  How  TO  Do  IT,  AND  How  TO  LIVE. 

VIII.  ADDRESSES   AND    ESSAYS  ON    SUBJECTS    OF   HISTORY,  EDU- 
CATION, AND  GOVERNMENT. 

IX.  SYBARIS,  AND   How  THEY  LIVED  AT    HAMPTON. 

X.  POEMS,  CRITICISMS,  AND  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

In  workmanship  and  appearance  the  edition  gives  every  satisfaction.  The  sage- 
green  linen  covers,  stamped  in  gold  only  on  the  back,  are  serviceable  and  attractive, 
and  the  paper  and  type  are  delightfully  pleasant  to  the  eye.  —  Literary  World. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  6?  COMPANY,  Publishers 
254  WASHINGTON  STREET,   BOSTON,   MASS. 


The  Man  Without  a  Country 

BY 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 

New  Edition*  With  a  preface  giving  an  account  of  the 
circumstances  and  incidents  of  its  publication,  and  a 
new  introduction  by  the  author  in  the  year  of  the  war 
with  Spain.  i6mo.  Cloth.  50  cents. 

Illustrated  Edition*  With  forty  pictures  by  Frank  T. 
Merrill.  Square  8vo.  Cloth.  75  cents. 

The  Story  of  the  Man  without  a  Country  will  be  remem- 
bered and  read  as  long  as  the  American  flag  flies,  and  it  will 
continue  to  do  good  to  successive  generations  of  young 
Americans.  .  .  .  What  a  splendid  work  of  imagination  and 
patriotism  that  story  is  !  Its  theme  is  vital,  and  consequently 
its  influence  is  perennial.  —  New  York  Sun  {Editorial). 

It  is  so  full  of  a  lofty  patriotism,  so  full  of  subtle  sug- 
gestions that  would  mean  nothing  to  a  foreigner  but  that 
move  our  hearts  strangely,  that  to  read  it  is  to  grow  prouder 
than  ever  of  the  country  and  the  flag.  —  Cincinnati  Com- 
mercial Gazette. 

The  moral  of  the  story  may  be  found  in  Nolan's  own  pitiful 
words  to  a  young  sailor :  "  And  for  your  country,  boy,  and  for  that 
flag,  never  dream  a  dream  but  of  serving  her  as  she  bids  you,  though 
the  service  carry  you  through  a  thousand  hells.  No  -matter  what 
happens  to  you,  no  matter  who  flatters  you  or  who  abuses  you,  never 
look  at  another  flag,  never  let  a  night  pass  but  you  pray  God  to  bless 
that  flag.  Remember,  boy,  that  behind  all  these  men  you  have  to  do 
with,  behind  officers  and  government  and  people  even,  there  is  the 
country  herself,  your  country,  and  that  you  belong  to  her  as  you 
belong  to  your  own  mother." 

LITTLE,    BROWN,   fef    COMPANY,    Publishers 
254   WASHINGTON    STREET,    BOSTON,   MASS. 


PIONEER    SPANIARDS    IN 
NORTH    AMERICA 

By  WILLIAM  HENRY  JOHNSON,  author  of  "The  World's  Dis- 
covers," etc.  With  numerous  illustrations.  12  mo.  Decorated 
cloth.  $1.20  net. 

In  his  new  book  the  author  of  "The  World's  Discoverers"  takes  up  the 
story  of  Spanish  exploration  and  conquest  in  the  period  immediately 
succeeding  the  discovery  of  America.  It  traces  the  gradual  spread  of 
Spanish  conquest  and  colonization  from  the  islands  of  the  Caribbean 
to  the  mainland ;  relates  the  brilliant  but  tragic  career  of  the  discoverer 
of  the  Pacific ;  sketches  the  astounding  achievement  of  Cortes  in  win- 
ning for  Spain  the  ancient  empire  of  the  Aztecs;  follows  into  the 
mysterious  interior  of  the  vast  continent  those  dauntless  adventurers, 
De  Soto  and  Coronado ;  tells  with  vivid  interest  the  stirring  tale  of  early 
New  Mexico ;  and,  finally,  brings  together  in  the  Appendix  a  mass  of 
information. 

BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR: 

THE   WORLD'S  DISCOVERERS 

The  Story  of  Bold  Voyages  by  Brave  Navigators 
during  a  Thousand  Years 

With  8  maps  and  36  illustrations.  i2mo.  Decorated  cloth. 
#1.50. 

This  is  believed  to  be  the  only  book  giving,  as  a  whole,  a  connected 
account  of  the  search  for  a  route  to  the  Indies.  The  scope  thus  includes 
voyages  made  by  Marco  Polo,  Bartholomew  Diaz,  Columbus,  Vasco  da 
Gama,  Magellan,  Verrazano,  Frobisher,  John  Davis,  Francis  Drake, 
William  Barentz,  Henry  Hudson,  Sir  John  Franklin,  Nordenskiold,  and 
many  others.  The  author  has  sketched  the  story  of  exploration  from 
King  Alfred's  time  down  to  its  final  triumph  in  our  own. 
Professor  John  Fiske  said  of  "  The  World's  Discoverers  " :  "  It  was  an 
excellent  idea  to  make  a  book  of  this  sort,  as  it  fills  a  place  not  exactly 
filled  before.  The  plan  is,  moreover,  extremely  well  worked  out,  and  I 
should  think  would  give  the  general  reader  quite  an  idea  of  the  treasures 
of  this  field  of  literature." 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers 
254  WASHINGTON  ST.,  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 


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